We Stand Alone Together
by Wesker888
Summary: When you're trapped in a desert, surrounded by a force you can't even begin to comprehend, the only person you can rely on is the person standing next to you.
1. The Calm Before the Storm

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** Hey again, everyone!

So, I thought this story up when _Crawling Under The Surface_was still about half-way done. It's definitely a idea than you're all probably used to, but hey, the last three stories were met with a large, supporting audience, so why not this?

So it's a Muggle meets wizarding world fanfic. The British army versus the Death Eaters. Pretty much canon with _Deathly Hallows_, does not have any characters from the book (at least, I don't _believe_ it will), and no plot line that you recognize. It'll be a good, not-so-clean fight.

Enjoy

* * *

The Calm Before The Storm

"_In a true war story, if there's a moral at all, it's like the thread that makes cloth. You can't tease it out. You can't extract the meaning without unraveling the deeper meaning. And in the end, really, there's nothing much to say about a true war story, except maybe 'Oh.'_

"_True war stories do not generalize. They do not indulge in abstraction or analysis._

"_For example: War is hell. As a moral declaration the old truism seems perfectly true, and yet because it abstracts, because it generalizes, I can't believe it with my stomach. Nothing turns inside._

"_It comes down to gut instinct. A true war story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe."_

* * *

The calm hum of the helicopters rang slowly from just behind the mountain tops. Long shadows zoomed over the landscape as they flew over head, sometimes over trees, other times over small villages, but always over sand. The sand was kicked up wherever they went, getting into the eyes of the people below, but above in the halos, the groups of soldiers were completely undisturbed by it, wearing goggles and gloves, listening to music, reading books, writing letters.

Behind the cockpit, one soldier sat with one leg hanging out the open door. He was a young man, with a Cru Cut of black hair, a big nose, in his own opinion, and he was tall and had a bit of a lanky appearance mixed in with his muscles. His M-4 carbine rested on his lap, the safety on so that it didn't accidentally go off and start a panic. He calmly chewed on a piece of gum, smacking it around in his jaw, his loud chewing drowned out by the helicopter humming, which was a good thing, because his chewing was known to drive fellow soldiers insane. They could never complain about it, however, for he outranked them by a good four or five ranks, and though he maintained a "strict but fair" attitude, he could still find it amusing to give them weekly latrine or Mess Hall duties, and not make it easy for them.

He was by no means the oldest soldier in their two hundred-man company, but neither was he the youngest. He was in his early thirties, with the oldest men being forty years old and the youngest- the "baby" of the company- was eighteen. He was a captain, recently promoted when his company commander had been transferred back to England. He had been a platoon leader before this, and had proved himself more than once on deployment, so no one doubted he would make a fine commanding officer when he took over the job. And, despite some nervousness at the beginning about being responsible for more lives, neither did he.

He had grown up in the highlands of Scotland, the land of _Brigadoon_ and _Braveheart_, where Scotsmen were portrayed as either fierce, determined warriors or good-spirited partiers. If he had to pick one or the other, he would've gone with the warrior; how many times as a teen had he dreamed of pulling a William Wallace and charge the fields, ready to wage war on whoever his oppressors may be? Fake war had been all fun and games, but the real thing, he had come to discover, was far more serious than that. People died, and that was cold hard fact. He had lost some good men, but he had kept other good men alive, so that had to work with him somehow.

The helicopter was approaching the base. Below him, he saw his men, enjoying their every day activities. He looked at the men with him in the helicopter and started giving them hand signals. Move fast out the door, heads down, try not to trip over their supplies. They all nodded, acknowledging his commands. They had all been fully trained in how to execute and intercept commands without hesitation. They had all been trained in fire-arms, in medical care, in vehicles and radio maintenance, anything that could be thought of as useful for a soldier in the field, they were taught it. They were taught until their brains could hold no more, and their bodies were already at the peak of their physical performance, and yet still they managed to learn more, to train more, because anything they didn't learn or train for usually resulted in one of them in a plastic black bag with their name tagged to the opening.

It was only a few minutes later when the chopper finally arrived on the ground and hovered long enough for the twelve soldiers inside to hop out and run forward with their heads low so that the rotor blades didn't take their heads off or, at the very least, send their helmets flying into the desert. The other choppers landed as well and the soldiers in those aircraft mimicked their predecessors as they all rushed themselves off the airspace. Once all the soldiers were off the field, the pilots lowered their helicopters slowly, until their wheels hit the ground, then flipped the breaks and turned the engines off.

The captain reported towards his executive officer, one of the aforementioned oldest men in the company. A tall, well-built sturdy man with stone-gray eyes, his short hair already showing signs of gray in them, but stern and obedient he was. As his commander approached, he gave him a stern salute, which was haphazardly returned by the tired captain.

"Afternoon, Captain," the X.O. said in a deep British accent. "Nice weather, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aye, I would," replied the captain in his soft Scottish one. "Better than the nasty weather we had last week. Makes for a more enjoyable ride."

His assistant nodded with a smile and the two walked through their base, arms behind their backs, looking like the official soldiers that they were.

Their base housed, not counting the cooks and air personnel, one hundred and sixty members of a company of the British 16th Air Assault Brigade's Parachute Regiment, twenty men from the French _Infanterie_, sixteen soldiers from the Russian 4th Guards Tank Division, and a four-man sniper team from the German _Kommando Spezialkräfte _5th platoon. Though the 16th was a British unit, the soldiers were a mix of British and Scottish and Irish as well. By now, they had all co-existed together for the better part of two years as a whole unit, as individual countries ranging from three or four years for the British to as long as thirteen for the Germans. Somehow, despite over a hundred or more years of distrust, war amongst the other, and many, many other conflicts between their countries, the four units managed to-for the most part- get along. They ate together, slept in the same rooms together, trained together, held contests and parties together, drank together, passed out together, and fought the enemy together. Occasionally, of course, they fought themselves- there was a nasty conflict between the Scots and the Irish during the first few days of their deployment, and by custom, the British and the French regarded each other wearily- but other than that, there were no major conflicts between the groups.

The base, codenamed Charlie Base, was the standard military operations base put into effect out in this desert. The center of the compound was a flat spot of dry sand in which the company met every morning for inspections, with chalk drawn in lines for if the lads wanted to play football. The barracks, long half-circle shaped buildings, went in rows of four and columns of five, with ten soldiers living in each one. The bunks, which were not bunks but thin cots with even thinner blankets, were arranged five down across from five down, and were separated in space no more than by the trunks at the foot of the cots. Personal space was defined by a line of black tape every man had placed around their bunk and trunk, with enough room to be able to get out of bed and their feet hit the floor without crossing over into the other man's space. Everyone respected each other's privacy, and did not cross over unless they received permission to do so.

At the north end of the compound was the helipad, where pilots, not officially signed in to the unit, brought them supplies and transported them to and from missions. On the south end was the motor pool, with the Humvees and trucks and medical buses and the likes. Next to that was the fuel depot, where the vehicles could be gassed up. At the east end were the three Russian tanks that the 4th Guards Division had loaned to them, along with the sixteen Russians that operated them. On the west end, under extremely heavy guard, was the ammunition dump for the rifle, shotgun, sniper rifle, machine-gun, sub-machine gun and pistol ammunition, as well as grenades, rockets and explosives.

There was an enlisted men's club, where the men gathered to watch television and play pool and clean weapons and gamble, located next to the center. Just north of that was the command post, the main headquarters for the company commander and platoon leaders. There was a firing range towards the west end of the compound, near the ammunition dump, and not far from that was an electronics building. The mess hall and medical bay were both located on opposite ends of the compound, which annoyed some of the men if they had to eat breakfast at one end and go to take some medication at the other. Despite the nuisances of everything being spread out, life on the compound was routine and predictable, and it was well welcomed to the men who knew how "interesting" things would get once they left the perimeter and went into the field.

The entire base was built on a small plateau surrounded by a riverbed. It was from this that the men got their water, after it had gone through many filters and had so many purified tablets added in that it removed any diseases. Even so, the men despised it, although they all drank it. There were two bridges built over the rivers leading them out, one to the north, and one to the south. A sentry tower stood at each bridge, with a lookout, usually a Frenchman by order of their commander, always positioned to watch for any unexpected incoming and send a warning to the other men to prepare the defenses.

The captain continued to look up towards the sky, at the blueness of it and the goldenness of the sun. Back home, as a child, whenever he was done with his make-believe war, he would lie back in the fields and stare up at the sky. Most times, it was cloudy- they usually got more rain than anything over there- but it was the really nice sunny days that he enjoyed the most. That brought him back to Scotland. Back to the life he missed with each hour that passed in this sand bowl.

"Thinking about home again?" his X.O. asked.

"Aye," he answered again. "Just wondering what they're doing right now."

"Your little girls' birthday's coming up, isn't it?"

"Next month."

"Will you be able to get home in time?"

"If me luck holds."

"Sir! Sir! Captain Wallace!"

Both officers stopped as another, younger British trooper ran up to them. He was a short kid, no taller than five foot five at the most. His beard was half-full, his eyes were beady behind his big square glasses, his hair was dirty-blonde, and his teeth were crooked and dirty. He was their company clerk, and he was one of the older (in time spent with the company) members of the unit, so much so that he was one of the most respected men in the company. He ran like a seven-year-old, with his desert-colored M-4 with M-203 grenade launcher clutched tightly in his hands, but he still managed to get up to his superiors with some breath left in him. He immediately snapped a quick salute and presented an envelope to Captain Wallace.

"This just came in, sir," he said in his soft British tone. "Sorry it took so long. Had to cut through a lot of red tape to get it."

Wallace grabbed the envelope and calmly opened it. His eyes scanned the small little note, his stern eyes savoring every syllable. His mouth curled into a large smile as he finished reading. He looked up at his clerk and nodded.

"Aye, thank you, Charlie," he said, nodding to his clerk. "This is exactly what I needed."

Charlie put on his grin- which made him appear as though he were five years old instead of three years from twenty-five-, nodded to him, then saluted the lieutenant and ran off again, to where was unknown. The boy had more energy in him than people working in a coffee shop. As he ran off, the lieutenant turned back to Wallace.

"Would that happen to be your luck holding for you?" he asked with a grin to rival the Cheshire Cat.

"Two weeks furlough in three weeks time, just in time to make her birthday," the captain said, giving the orders a giant kiss. "Her Majesty's Army, sometimes, you just gotta love it, Port."

Lieutenant Port nodded, happy that his friend was headed home for a couple of weeks. This was his first furlough since their deployment had begun over ten months ago. Platoon leading and then company commanding had demanded all of his time and effort, leaving nothing but letters and the occasional phone call to his wife of nine years and their almost two-year-old daughter.

Now, he was almost home-ward bound, just a few more weeks.

And nothing that could possibly go wrong.

* * *

The average rank in the company, more or less, was Private First Class. There were plenty of those, mainly amongst the younger soldiers. There were also several Corporals, at least one Sergeant for every squad and one Staff Sergeant for every platoon. Of officers, there were a few, beginning at Second Lieutenant and ending with Captain, and that was just for their British company. The highest rank for the French squad was _Sous-Lieutenant_, the equivelent to Lieutenant, and its men were _Caporal-Chefs _with one _Sergent-Chef_. The highest for the Russian tankers was a Senior _Praporshchik_, or Senior Warrant Officer, with the rest being _Grefieter_ with two Junior Sergeants; which, to the Russians, meant they were Corporals. Finally, the highest rank for the German Special Forces team was _Hauptfeldwebel,_ or a Sergeant First Class,joined by three other _Feldwebels, _or Staff Sergeants,though to them rank was little more than a means of figuring out who was most senior, nothing more. Rank meant nothing to them. To the French, it meant something, to the Russians, everything. To the British, however, rank was important, mainly to the officers and senior sergeants, but not as important as it would be elsewhere in the world, under a different commander.

For all one hundred and sixty English, Irish, and Scotsmen, the average age was, give or take, around twenty-six. Mainly the British sergeants, who had been together for as long as their company had been activated. The age difference went like this: the younger, fresher men went from eighteen to twenty-four, and the older men went from twenty-six to forty. In both the French and Russian units, their ages were in the early-to-mid thirties, and the Germans were in their late twenties/early thirties. Despite their age difference, the soldiers interacted with each other as though they were all the same age. In the example of Captain Wallace and Lieutenant Port, one was thirty-four while the other was forty. And yet, they were the best of friends, because they saw in each other something other than age, and that was their devotion to their duties and their company.

At twenty-five years of age, Private First Class Daniel Armstrong was neither amongst the "babies" of the company nor the "old men". He was in the middle, and that worked quite well for him, because he was too old for some things but too young to be a senior non-commissioned officer (NCO). He was old enough to be treated with respect, but not old enough to not be called by his age-old nickname of "Danny". He was a tall, slim-thin man in terrific physical shape and had a wide humorous appeal to him that everyone enjoyed. He could be seen as the "prankster" of the company, and also the jokester, and instead of being considered annoying, everyone, enlisted and officers alike, saw him as funny and amusing. Captain Wallace especially saw Danny as something like a son to him, which is why the private was closer to the C.O. than any of the other enlisted men were.

Danny was from Edinburgh, having grown up to a middle-class family that was always working. His dad worked a factory job, sometimes causing him to work late enough to miss tucking his children in to bed. His mother worked as a nurse in the city hospital, and she too was often gone nights or whole days, depending on what shift she had and how bad the patient's conditions were and which doctors were on site to check up and flirt with all the available nurses. When they became old enough, Danny and his two brothers worked every day after school, including weekends, and, when school ended, all three of them enlisted; with all the determination they had inherited through his family getting them to their destinations. For Danny, this meant the 16th. For his brothers, this meant the British Royal Navy. They had worked hard to get where they were, and all three of them had made it.

The company was gathered in the mess hall, stretched out by ten to fifteen very long tables for the men to sit and have enough room for more than just eating. Danny sat with his squad buddies, all eating and talking at the same time, which was, of course, the most disgusting thing to do at the table but safe from the restrictions at home, none of them cared.

"You gonna finish that?"

"Wait your sodding turn! Didn't you learn anything from Mum?"

"Yeah, how to make me bed and how to take the weeds out of the garden and how to fold me laundry-"

"-And how to wait your bleeding turn at the meals, now sit your arse down before I smack you upside the head."

This little argument came from the two Freedman Brothers. Spencer, 26, and Peter, 19, were both privates from London, and were everything you'd expect from a pair of siblings. Spencer, or "Sykes" as the men in their company called him, was their platoon's radio operator, a short man with slicked-up black hair and a pale face that looked as though it hardly ever saw sunlight, though he was probably outside more than others. "Pete" was his opposite in almost every way. Taller than his brother, he had short light brown, almost blonde hair, blue eyes, and a knack for getting into trouble. Sykes was the older and more responsible one. Pete was the younger, reckless one. Put them both together, it was mayhem for them, a comedy for the rest of the company.

Danny sat there, smirking at the show. At his side sat Sergeant Eddie Price, their squad leader. One of the oldest serving soldiers in the unit, he was a short man with a portly build, blue eyes, and a neat and bushy mustache perched right under his hooked nose. Price had been born in Bristol, and at thirty-eight, he was one of the "old men" of the company. He had been in the army for a good ten to fifteen years, having served in a Special Ops. unit a few years back before transferring down to their company. Strict, but fair, with a good nature, he was well-liked by the men in his squad.

Across from them sat Danny's best mate Private Kevin Matthews, their squad's SAW gunner. A tall, gangly twenty-year-old with blonde hair, Matthews came from the rich part of Nottingham, though he didn't act as much of a rich snob as people would imagine by his appearance. On the contrary, he was a rather friendly kid, who liked to surf (he had vacationed to the beach often as a lad) and loaf around with his buddies. He and Danny had met on their second week and basic and had hardly parted ways since.

Next up was Technical Corporal Archie Simmons, one of the medics in the company. A short, black soldier at thirty years of age, with a neatly trimmed mustache, Archie came from Liverpool, and was a jovial guy who could always be seen laughing heartedly at something, whatever it was being irrelevant. He was the ambulance/bus driver, which was a green bus painted with the medical symbol on it and the seats replaced with bunks for the critically wounded. It was a depressing kind of job, but somehow, Archie never let it dampen his spirits, and kept that millionaire-smile dance on his face.

Private Gavin Sullivan was next in the group. Of all the M-60 gunners in the company, he was the best man to hold one. A large man of thirty-three, he weighed a good 180-200 pounds of muscle, with slicked-back brown hair, a sharp, hooked nose, and a nickname "Sully" that suited him. Sully came from Gloucester, worked in the motor pool the majority of the time, and it showed through the grease and oil stains on his hands and face. But put behind the machine-gun, and there was no one who could rival him.

Save maybe one. Sitting next to him, eating away at his chicken, was "Finn", Private First Class James Finnegan, a twenty-nine-year-old SAW gunner from Bath. Also a big man, he had a small round face, and his shaved head was always covered by a green bandanna. Raised by a very religious family, he was a devout Catholic and said a prayer before everything he did. While most in the company accepted it, it strained relationships between him and Sully, who considered himself an atheist. But both were good with their respective machine-guns, and there were often competitions to see who was better.

Next to him was his best friend, Private Owen McIntyre. Also from Bath at twenty-eight, Owen was a large man with curly black hair and brown eyes, and though he was often silent, he was very friendly. He and Finn had grown up together, and it was by mere coincidence that they were both paired in the same unit. Serving as his assistant gunner, the two stuck together on most operations and bunked next to each other in the barracks.

Finally, there was the new guy, Private Henry "Tubbs" Robbins, the baby of the company at eighteen. A short, fat kid, he had just come in from Canterbury. As he was new, he was quiet, shy and reserved, but over the last couple weeks of his deployment, the older men had begun to crack him out of his shell, enough so that it wasn't difficult for him to engage in a conversation.

"Why you always pissin' on me? Mum's not here, is she? I'm on me own, and I can damn well do what I please, you twit," muttered Pete.

"Not while I'm here, you're not. You'll do as you're told," Sykes sternly told him. "Mum told me to look after you, and I'm not having you go home acting like a bloody idiot. Ergo, I'm watching you like a hawk."

"The hell you are."

"The hell I'm not."

"This is more amusin' than watchin' the telly on a Friday night," Sully stated as he chewed through his meat.

"Are they always like this?" Tubbs inquired.

"Oh this isn't even bad. You should see them when we're watching the footy," Archie laughed as he sipped his coffee. "It's madness."

"Aye, when the popcorn went flying and hit Mikey in the face, that was just priceless," chided in Matthews with a chuckle.

Owen smirked and bit into his cookie. Price sipped his tea lightly.

"Oye! Lads!"

Most of the men-including all of the Irishmen- looked up as a short thin man with messy dark hair and a wild look in his eyes came strutting into the Mess Hall. About half the men who looked up immediately groaned and went back down to their meals, while the other half- including all of the Irishmen- still remained up, listening to what he had to say.

"Oh _God_," Sully groaned, plucking at his potatoes. "Not again."

"Get out your sunscreen and beach towels, the Father says we're in for another week of beautiful weather!" he cried out, and was instantly met with cheers from his Irish comrades. Tubbs turned back to the other squad members, frowning.

"Father?" he asked. "Is he talking about the Almighty, or his dad back home?"

"Dunno, mate," Sykes mumbled. "Could be a wee bit of both."

"Hard to tell with that one," replied Pete, sipping his soup. "He's a strange one, he is."

"You have to take what he says into account, though," Finn stated. "If you think about it, about ninety percent of the things he comes up with actually turn out to be pretty accurate."

"Finn," Sully argued back, "I know you're probably one of the biggest God-nuts out there, but you honestly expect me to believe that nutter talks to the Big Man?"

"What I'm saying is, don't disregard it so quickly."

While the two argued over whether or not it was real, Danny looked over to where the man now sat off by himself, cheerfully eating his meal and seemingly without a care in the world.

They had been on the same tour for ten months, been in several firefights, gone on nine patrols and had spent countless hours on outpost (O.P.), and yet Danny still could not figure out Private First Class Patrick Marek for the life of him. The man came from County Cork, Ireland, born to an Irish mother and a Dutch father. He went to high school, decided to spend time as a missionary, and came back home a changed man. At twenty-five, the man was convinced he could actually _talk_ to God. And while it was true that the majority of the things the "Father" told him did turn out dead-on, Danny had to seriously question if Marek was "all there" in the head.

The man was friendly, he could give him that. He was pleasant to talk to, always had something nice to say about everyone, and brushed off insults like one brushed off a mosquito in the summer time. Whenever someone didn't have enough food, he would share his. When someone got shot and he was close enough, he was known to use up his own First-Aid Kit to try to stop the bleeding. When someone had gotten a tough letter from home, and needed a word of advice, there Marek was, with a pat on the back and an old Irish saying his mother used to tell him as a child. Whenever he was needed- or wasn't needed- there he was.

But the man was strange; there was no point in denying it. And as much as he was friendly, Danny knew of many in the company who preferred to keep their distance.

"So there's a contest over at the target range after lunch," Sully piped up. "Who's in for a watch?"

"You know I am," Pete answered with a smirk.

"Aye, same here," Owen remarked.

"Danny, you gonna come?" Matthews asked his friend.

"Yeah, course. Count me in."

The contests were mainly only held between the other nationalities in the force, primarily the Germans- who loved to show themselves off without even realizing it as "showing off"- but most if not all the others loved to watch. It was the "cool" thing to do for them. Their way of enjoying their time out in the desert, when there was little to no T.V., absolutely no women, no beer halls, no anything.

It was their way of almost feeling normal.

* * *

The weapons the force had varied. Most were military-issued, but some were brought or sent from home as back-up weapons/guard duty weapons/sporting weapons. They ranged from MP-5s to M-16s to M-4s to CAR-15s to G-3s to G-36s to L85A1s to TAR-21s to M-468s to P90s to AK-74s to M-60s to M-249s to M-240s to PKs to Remington 870s to Benelli M4 Super 90s to Mossberg 500s to a double-barreled shotgun to L96A1s to HK-PSG1s to SIG-Sauer SSG 2000s to a customized WA2000 to Glock-39s to Heckler & Koch P-7s to Beretta 92Fs to Desert Eagles to a nickel-plated .45 to silenced pistols to LAW80s to RPGs to any other weapon fathomable. Every soldier was heavily trained with just about every one of these weapons and more, including the heavy .50 caliber machine guns and the Mark-19 grenade launchers mounted on their Humvees. All of them had some training as a machine-gunner, a sniper, or just an ordinary rifleman, in case one of theirs was killed or wounded and someone had to take over for them.

Danny and his squad arrived at the firing range just in time for the next competitor to be call up. Not to any surprise, the other three members of the motor pool crew had already called the best seats of the house, and were getting ready to watch the spectacle.

Staff Sergeant Dale Ryan was head of the motor pool maintenance, as well as the platoon sergeant for their 2nd platoon. A short, plump man of thirty-five, with a shaved head of gray hair and crooked teeth, Ryan came from Manchester and, like Price, had been in the Army for several years, serving on many frontline actions since as far back as the Panama War. Unlike Price, however, he was sterner with his command, especially when they were out in the field. He was known to push his men harder and faster than anyone else in the company, and it was because of this that most of his men liked to keep away from him on their off time. When it came to events like this, though, he usually set it aside to watch the game, and that was when he was most enjoyable to be around.

Private First Class Anthony "Tony" Smith was a thirty-one-year-old from Liverpool. Tall and well-built with a five o'clock shadow and slicked back black hair, Tony had spent most of his early years wrestling his four older brothers. He joined the high school wrestling team in his freshman year, and by senior year he was team captain and a leading contender in the ring. Now, in the army, he spent his time fixing up vehicles and manning the .50 cal on top of Ryan's Humvee, though he still held wrestling matches in his spare time.

Private First Class Aaron Murphy was the youngest of the trio at only nineteen, hailing from Chester. A short thin kid, with curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and two buck teeth, Murphy had been a good kid growing up. But then high school came, and soon he was hooked on almost every drug ever invented. By junior year, he was found passed out in the bathroom with his head in the toilet. Rehab and joining the army had all but cured the addiction, but the medics still had him on watch, and whenever it seemed like he was going to relapse, they would give him one pill that helped calmed his nerves. It actually seemed like he preferred those now. Murphy was normally quiet and preferred to stay back and let the others talk, and when he did talk, it was always in a quiet voice, and often times with stammered words.

Danny and his squad joined these three men as they watched the tournament begin. The sign over the range showed who the contenders were for the day; all three leaders of the non-British troops were competing today in a sport for minor profit. Stakes were forty to fifty dollars and a pass to see the symphony in Paris on their next furlough countryside.

"We miss much?" questioned Pete.

"You're just in time to see Web go up," answered Tony, popping some freshly-made popcorn into his mouth.

"Excellent," Danny sat down and grabbed a fistful of popcorn. "He's what makes this whole thing the best show ever."

Whatever conflicts the men might or might not have with the other nationalities, there was no doubt that the leaders of said nationalities had their total respects. To state correctly, it was total awe. And no one knew where this awe came from, only that it existed. Some of them even called it ridiculous, the way they worshipped them, but still the worship remained. These three men were calm and collected and lead their men without any hesitation, fear or regret. They trained harder and moved faster, and their attitudes towards doing it were-simply put- _cool_, by the terms of the younger men just out of school. They were the icing on the cake for the force, them and their men, and their stories and where they came from just made the British soldiers' heads raise in respect for what they had to say.

Most of the men, despite their grudges, could not deny that _Sous-Lieutenant_ André Hirko had the complete respect of his men and their own. A short man, well muscled, with a bald head, Hirko was forty, had been born and raised in Carentan, France, and at only sixteen had served in the final years of Vietnam, where he had been wounded severely twice and still came back to fight with his men. This endurance, and his heroic actions during those battles the French fought, lead him to win the _Légion d'honneur_, the highest military decoration in France. He was now willingly volunteering to lead his twenty men on this assignment, when three other lieutenants had refused it. Any disputes between French and British soldiers was forgotten when seeing the lieutenant walking with his second-in-command, tall and proud, nodding his head in their direction. He was just cool that way.

Danny personally had favor for the red-headed leader of the Russian tankers, Senior _Praporshchik_ Nicholai Bakunin. A tall man with a young face, he was thirty-one, and had lived in Kiev, Russia before coming here. Unlike Hirko, Bakunin had only been a soldier since Desert Storm, but the stories of him leading his tanks into the heaviest fighting with little casualties had made him legend amongst the Russians. It was said that he had God-like abilities with his armor, and he always seemed to know when there was a rocket or anti-tank weapon aimed for one of them. Danny had once seen him, when his tank was being peppered with machine-gun fire, throw open his hatch door, stand on top of the tank, and laugh at the rebels as they tried- and failed- to hit him. That was just something that made a man a god, and Bakunin had that aspect to him. He was totally and completely fearless.

But the coolest of all of them- and this belief was held by every soldier, regardless of age, rank, or nationality- was "Web." _Hauptfeldwebel _Dietrich Weber, the leader of the German Special Forces team. A tall, muscular man at thirty-eight, with sandy blonde hair tucked under a bandanna, Weber came from Aachen, Germany, and had been involved in almost four hundred covert op. missions over the last fifteen years. He was known to go off at days, sometimes even weeks at a time, and then slide back into base in the middle of the night, like a shadow. He was known to go into heavily-armed cities dressed as a civilian with nothing but a handgun and a knife; and sometimes not even _those. _He was known to have collected trophies from all over the world, but not once did he brag about them or about any other thing he had accomplished. Even his fellow German soldiers held the man with the same utmost awe and respect that the other soldiers had for him.

Danny and the other men sat besides Ryan and his men just as Weber stepped up to the stand. In his hands was the WA2000 that he had personally customized on and off for the last eight years. It was a bulky weapon that looked like a box with a scope on top, but it was very accurate, especially when placed in a specialist's hands like his. At the other end of the range were five cans, all neatly lined up in a row, each with a red-and-white bull's-eye painted on them. The distance had to be at least a hundred yards, maybe more, but every single soldier seated in the stands knew that would not stop Weber.

The German sniper calmly lifted the heavy weapon and brought the scope to his eye and smirked.

In no time, all five cans were off their perches and on the ground. There was a bullet hole in each one of them. The target master ran and checked each one, and held them all up, one after the other, for everyone to see the bullet hole that was in the center of each and every target.

The crowd, British and Frenchmen and Russians and Germans, all cheered wildly as the sniper lowered his rifle and took a theatrical bow. Most of them, even after seeing it hundreds of times, were still in awe. It had happened faster than lightening, the way he had taken down all five like they were flies. No one could beat Weber. It was a fool thing to even try.

"Looks like I'm headed to Paris, mates," said Tony with a smug grin. "I put twenty on Web getting them all without missing."

"_Again?" _Pete groaned. "You ALWAYS win, mate."

"That's because I always bet on the winner."

Weber hopped from the pit to greet Hirko and Bakunin as they prepared for their rounds. Despite the differences in their ranks, the three treated each other as equals, like friends who were on the practice range back home. They respected each other for the way each lead their men and handled everything in battle.

"Very nice shot, Dietrich," Hirko said in his polite French-accented voice.

"Think you can top that off, André?" Weber asked with a smirk, his German voice calm and soothing.

"Not I, _mon ami_, but Nicholai I'm sure could attempt it, wouldn't you say, _monsieur_?" the _Sous-Lieutenant _turned to the red-haired Russian.

"I am certainly ready to give it a shot," the gruff-voiced Bakunin replied, giving the German a daring smirk.

Danny, Matthews, Sykes, Pete, Price, Tubbs and Sully came down from the stands and went up to Weber, all the while remembering to keep their distance. It was not due to mistrust, or because of long-set grudges, but because the man was imposing. He stood an alarming six foot five, weighing two hundred and fifty-six pounds of all muscle. It was rumored that he could break a bear's skull just by punching it in the jaw. They were only rumors, but no one doubted the truth behind them. But Weber was also very polite and friendly, and his accent was good enough that he could have been English with some German language thrown in.

"Bloody nice shooting, Weber," said Price, probably the only British soldier who was on permanent speaking terms with the big German. The two had a long history of saving each others' asses, back when Price was Spec Ops. Captain Wallace saw Price as a sort of diplomat due to this relationship, and as such, used Price to relay requests to the German Special Forces team.

"Thank you kindly, Sergeant Price." Weber nodded to him and looked past him at the other soldiers. "And your men appreciated it, I would hope?"

"Yes, Sergeant," Matthews blurted out nervously. He always had the most problems around Weber; whether it be fear or just awe, he could never speak well around him.

"Good." Weber's eyes fell on Tubbs. "I am not familiar with you."

"This is Private Robbins, the new chap," Price explained to him. "Lads call him Tubbs."

"Hey Web," Sully called, placing his arm around Tubbs' shoulders, "Tubbs hasn't seen any of your trophies yet, y'think we might be able to give him a little lesson in the valuables of the world?"

Tubbs instantly perked up. He had been wanting to see the treasures in Weber's collection ever since he had first heard of them upon his arrival. He had long been interested in artifacts, either from past centuries or from other countries. When he had heard of Weber's vast inventory of relics, he had been dying to view them, though nervous to ask for the big German's permission.

Weber smirked. "Certainly. Follow me."

Weber's team slept in 7x10x8 foxholes on the edge of the compound, with canvas staked over them to make tents. The dugouts were remarkably comfortable, which baffled the other soldiers until they actually went in and discovered that they had outlined their holes with civilian comforters and blankets, either sent from home or taken from abandoned homes. He had built himself a sturdy wooden cupboard for his treasures, and a small table that he pulled out for his meals. His bed was not a bed, but a sleeping mat which he had lined with extra comforters and a pillow that was hard as a rock but was therapeutic for his neck and so he slept well on it.

Weber lead Danny, Price, Sully and Tubbs into the pit and opened up the cupboard. Inside were countless treasures, ranging on all four shelves from rings to knives to sabers and other odds and ends. Tubbs' eyes were shining in awe and wonder as he picked up one of the rings, one with red triangle-shaped jewels all around it..

"Cool..." he said, examining it.

"Ah, yes, this one," Weber explained. "That one came from a Somalian drug lord that was polluting the town's water supply. He had taken a U.N. ambassador hostage and my team was sent in to retrieve him. I cut it off his finger after I took him down with a single bullet to the back of his head."

"Seriously? Wow..."

"Oye, Web," said Sully, picking up a long saber. "Tell him about this one, I love the story to this."

"Aaaaah, yes," smiled Weber. "That one came from a rebel leader in Japan that was threatening to execute an entire village with plastic explosives. My team pursued him for three whole months before we caught up to him in a cave. He attacked me with his sword, and after some time of deflecting his blows with my rifle he appeared to have the upper hand, but I got the upper hand, got behind him, and snapped his neck. His sword was such a nice one, a shame to waste, so I 'liberated' it from him."

"How come you don't sell these things, Weber?" Price wanted to know. "You have so many of them, you could be a bloody millionaire."

"Sergeant Price, life should not be about making money," the German sergeant said amusedly. "Money comes and goes, but treasures and memories last a lifetime. I would rather have many memories than a few thousand pounds, would you not agree?"

Price smiled back. "Yes, I suppose I would."

"Hell, I'd keep the saber definitely," chimed in Sully. "But the ring'd sell for a ton of pounds, and it may be temporary, but damn if I couldn't pay off that mortgage for my house-"

"Hey Web, what's this one?"

Danny had picked up a small object, one that had not been in the cupboard but instead was placed near his pillow. At first glance, it looked like a child's top, much like the one he used to play with as a child. However, this one was made entirely of glass, and would probably break if he tried to use it now. In fact, upon closer examination and reflection, he doubted any youth-respecting toymaker would ever make a glass top for a young child who would most likely break it in one spin. This top was the most intriguing thing he had ever seen...and what did that say about him, he wondered, becoming incredibly mystified over a child's play thing?

Weber came over and took the top from his hands. He examined it, a curious frown on his face.

"Hmm...strange, I do not recall getting this one," he admitted to them.

"Really?" Price and Sully exchanged a glance. Weber had a great memory, and could recall the history of any and every item he had ever obtained. If he did not know what it was, that meant it had never officially made its way into his possession. So then where had it come from?

"What does it do?" asked Sully.

Let's find out." Weber placed it on the table, removed his knife, and brought it under the top of the instrument, preparing to cut the top off.

What happened next resulted in the shattering of ear drums as though they themselves were made of cheap glass. The top suddenly lit up in bright lights and a high-pitched siren sound emitted the moment the blade touched it. Weber immediately pulled back as he brought his hands to his ears, following the other soldiers who had plugged their holes even faster than he. Now the top was spinning on his own, the lights twirling like on display and that noise more irritating than a vulture's shriek.

"Bloody hell, turn it off!" Sully screamed over the noise.

Weber grabbed one of his boots and smacked it off the table. It hit the cupboard with a force that was sure to have broken it but surprisingly did not as it fell to the floor. The lights switched off and the noise screeched to a halt.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" demanded Tubbs.

Weber took his entrenching tool and carefully scooped the object back up. This time, it did not move upon contact with an object. Danny had come close to pulling out his Glock on this thing, ready to shoot it if it happened to explode on them. It was very rare that someone booby-trapped them, but it did happen, but nothing like this odd little glass toy. He would never have imagined the rebels capable of such intriguing devices but then again, he was talking about the people that rigged chess sets so that they exploded. Maybe it was not all that uncommon after all.

"Never seen anything like this." Price echoed his exact thoughts in his own words.

"Never?"

"No, never. Never something this small. And especially that doesn't explode. Makes no sense."

"Let's take it to Mikey," Sully insisted, looking around at all of them. "He's the tech-nerd. He must have some idea what the hell this thing is."

* * *

"Guys, I have absolutely no idea what the hell this thing is."

"None at all?" Danny asked in a dismayed voice.

"If it's a bomb, it's not one that I know of," said Corporal Michael Stern as he looked up from his microscope. "And it's too sophisticated to be something that the rebels would cook up. Definitely doesn't LOOK homemade, at any rate."

Stern was from Dublin, Ireland, born to a pair of scientists that studied quantum physics. At twenty-nine, he was six foot two and one hundred and fifty-three pounds, making him one of the skinniest soldiers in the company, with bright blue eyes behind a pair of rectangle-shaped glasses and blonde hair. A "genius", as described by the other men, Stern attended Oxford University and graduated with a masters in physics and technology. He enlisted in the army to gain a new perspective on life for himself, and upon request to the higher-ups was given his own lab to live in and, when traveling, he was given the satellite truck, which monitored radar frequencies for when they were traveling and a miniature lab for his experiments. Stern was oftentimes impatient with other soldiers, especially since he liked to take his time and have everything neat and tidy in his lab, yet the men found him to be good company, and always went to him if they had a question on anything.

"So you guys found this in Weber's tent?" he asked.

"Yeah, right near his bed," Danny answered. "How'd they get pass security, we've got guards all around the perimeter."

"What did it do, exactly?"

"It just lit up and started being an annoying little shite," Sully chimed in with. "Then it started spinning. Then Web smacked it, but it didn't blow. So it doesn't seem like it's a bomb, does it?"

"It doesn't seem like it's a lot of things," admitted Stern. "Not a bomb, otherwise, it would have exploded when Weber hit it. Doesn't look like a personnel sensor because of how it reacted. In reality, it really wasn't anything until Weber tried to take the top off it."

"It freaked out when the knife touched," Danny remembered. "Could that mean something?"

"Theoretically, it would mean it reacts to touch, but you picked it up without a problem, right?"

"Yeah..."

"Then did it react to the knife...like it knew it was going to do something?"

"What, like it reacts to whenever someone's going to do something bad to it?"

"Bad, hostile...maybe untrustworthy, even?"

"How does it do that?" Price wanted to know. "How does an inanimate object know when something bad or hostile is going to happen to it?"

"I'm not sure." Stern shook his head as he took another glance into the microscope. "How could it be self-aware if it's not electronic? And an even better question, how can a non-electronic gizmo with no CPU unit move on its own? It just makes no sense..."

He rubbed his temple, lost in the mystery. The others were just as confused. Nothing Stern had said had made much sense, but what they knew was that he did not know, and that was a first for them.

_CRASH!_

Stern groaned.

"God _damn_ it, François, how many times have I told you not to touch my equipment?"

He turned his head to the other end of his lab, where a six-foot-five, skinny, curly brown-haired man with oval-shaped glasses and a light circle beard had knocked over a set of Bunsen burners. He looked up at his Irish comrade and flashed him a crooked, somewhat dirty smile.

François Donatelle was the French tech-support guy. Born and raised in Nantes, France, to a rather poor family, he was also a brilliant computer technician. He had programmed several simulation programs for training, which he showed to the commanders, who in turn showed to their men to practice on maneuvers. He was nice and polite, but he was quiet and kept more to himself as well. His French companions got along well with him, but everyone else had a hard time understanding him, and for simple reasons.

François had been assigned to Stern's lab quarters with the Irishman so that they could help each other with the computers and electronic security. Their superiors believed that it would keep the peace between the races as well as make the French feel that they were contributing to their assignment- which they were, of course, and their contribution was greatly appreciated.

There was one small error with the match, however: François knew no English, and Stern knew no French. As a result, the two of them trying to communicate was as effective as the sun trying to communicate with the moon.

"Damn it," cursed Stern, walking over as François bent down to pick up the pieces. "Again, my laboratory, NOT a bloody fucking playground! If you're going to mess around, do it outside where you won't break something!"

The Frenchman began speaking in rapid French, presumably an apology. The Irishman just groaned.

"François, _François_," he interrupted. "How many times do I have to tell you? I don't, I don't speak French. None. Zero. So...speak English, please. I know you know some, every one else in your bloody unit knows SOME, so just...just cut it out and speak to me normally."

François looked at him for a moment, stared at him hard...and then opened his mouth and began throwing out French words. Stern just shook his head.

"Fine, whatever. Continue with the French. I give a shit, really," he told him, turning around and returning to his countrymen. "French. Only two things they're good for: surrendering, and kissing."

Danny and Price exchanged looks. Stern had a habit for speaking ill against their allies from across the Channel. Maybe it was his upbringing, or maybe it was just how he was programmed, but when it came to the French, he made his contempt well-known.

"Look, guys," Stern returned to the matter at hand, "I'll keep an analysis on this thing going, but honestly, I've never seen something of this design before. I think you may have found a new invention here."

"Sweet." Sully's head was buzzing with possible business ideas at the mere thought of it. Of course, they may have to change it around a bit; he doubted severely that any halfway sane human would want something that screamed louder than a man and a woman going at it as though the world were going to end.

"If it's a new invention, then who invented it?" Price wondered. His mind was spinning differently. Whoever had left this in Weber's tent had obviously done so for a reason, and he could not help but feel that that reason was not to meet under a white flag to sign the dotted line. But again, the rebels did not have that kind of technology...unless someone was dealing it to them under the table. Russia? Not all that unlikely, but the blokes they had with them were the best chaps ever, and they had never made any indication that relations would go south. So who? Ukraine? Somalia? Czech Republic? In reality it could be anyone, and it reality it could be no one.

"I'll run it through the scanners, see if I can find a cross-match anywhere, but it doesn't look likely," said Stern. "I can include it in the report to headquarters also. Seriously, though, if this IS a new invention, it definitely is a creative one. I'll see what I can find out about it. In the meantime, we may want to keep this under our helmets, so we don't cause a panic."

* * *

Night time on the base was as varied to one individual as to the next. Depending on if they were a senior noncom or officer, or if they were just a member of the company, the options that came with being off duty were as endless as their limited means of entertainment would allow. They would watch the game on the telly, they would shoot some pool, they would play some cards, and when they did not feel like doing any of that, they talked.

Talk was one of the main things they did. When they were on duty, on patrol, in a battle, on the toilet, in the mess hall, watching the shooting matches, or just loafing around the barracks, talk was the one thing they did constantly. As Danny liked to say, "bullets run empty, food runs out, shit runs up and down hill, but words run forever." It was a tired line, but some still laughed at it.

The men sat in chairs and placed crates or small tables in between them in order to play cards and, above all else, talk. They talked in pairs or in groups, and whatever the subject, wherever the place, the talk was constant.

Private First Class Jason Stacker was a twenty-seven-year-old from Dundee, Scotland with brown skin, a shaved head, and straight teeth stained yellow. He was a soldier of four years, and although he was lazy, he was dedicated and loyal to the men he fought with. He was notorious with his money, in that the night they all got paid, he would gamble as hard as he could, and when it was over, whatever he had left was placed in bank. Most times, there was little, but occasionally he got lucky. He had become lucky in knowing when to deal and when to fold, and lately, the wins- and the money- kept coming in.

Private First Class Tucker Ross was a twenty-one-year-old from Galway, Ireland, with messy brown hair and a pair of small rectangle-shaped glasses that rested upon a small nose. He was an older soldier despite his age, having been with them for over a year now. He was eager to learn and eager to help out in any way possible, but he was also jumpy and nervous, and tended to overreact to things. He liked talking to the older members of the company, and especially liked to hear the rumors of possible raids or attacks against the rebel faction.

Private First Class Terry Milburn was a twenty-three-year-old from Sheffield, England, with short but messy blonde hair and a boyish face. He was the company's foremost demolitions expert, and could handle everything from C-4 to nitroglycerin to nuclear devices. He was also a bit of a practical joker, and as such usually carried around with him a bag filled with firecrackers and tiny charges placed in peoples' cigarettes and coffee. He liked to believe that he knew how the world worked, and took everything in stride, not allowing himself to get surprised or startled by anything.

The three men were good friends with one another, although very competitive when it came to money and women. Where they always found the money, the other men were never quite sure, but somehow their wallets managed to find new bills to put into the pot. It became a fun thing to watch, those three wankers throw their money to the ground for the stupidest things. They were the laziest, most laid-back soldiers in the entire company, yet when things went downhill they could always be counted on for a laugh, whether it was intentional or not.

"I heard that an attack is being planned," Jason began the conversation, throwing two chips onto the crate they were playing on.

"Who? Us or them?" wondered Tucker.

"Us. Sometime soon."

"You're full of it," said Terry, placing his cards on the table, winning the hand.

"Am not. It's supposed to be within the next month, to put a real end to the rebel activities."

"Full of shite, mate. Full of shite."

"You seriously don't believe me?"

Terry lit up a cigarette and blew out the smoke before answering. "Captain would have told us if someone was planning a move. Unless some twat up in Division is speaking out of his ass, I don't believe anything serious is getting planned."

"Fine." Jason arched his head. "Charlie, get over here, will you?"

T/5 Charlie Booth glanced up from tuning his guitar. The sandy-haired company clerk from Manchester had a part-time acoustic band that played coffee joints back home, and he was always playing for the men or for himself, usually singing along with his playing, either old classics or his own tunes. Most people who sang with their guitars spoofed it and sounded terrible when doing it, which was okay sometimes if it were just for a joke but usually got scorned and thrown out for the night. But Charlie sang like a pro. As scratchy and low as his voice was normally, his tenor came out in his songs, light and fair.

"Yeah? What do you need?" He placed his guitar against the table he sat at and approached them.

"Well, we need to know something," Jason said, bringing the clerk down to his level and placing his arm around his shoulders. "You're in on the company briefings, right?"

"Aye."

"Aye, and you hear everything the captain plans with the rest of command?"

"Mostly, aye."

"So tell us, then; what's the deal with the attack."

Charlie paused, then smiled his crooked smile.

"I'm not really supposed to talk about it-"

"Ah, so there IS an attack being planned?" Jason winked at Tucker, who leaned in with curiosity. Terry hung back, smoking his cigarette, but definitely attentive.

"Well, I mean...you know, they really-"

"C'mon, Charlie," Terry finally said. "You know us; we won't tell anyone. Will we, guys?"

He glared at Tucker, whose head bobbled up and down like it was a fishing lure on the lake. Jason nodded quietly, not looking at him, still focused solely on the clerk.

Charlie fixed his glasses on his nose, then looked left and right as though he was in a back alley wearing a trench coat about to spill the secret to the plan of breaking in to fucking Buckingham Palace through the roof. Then he looked back and leaned in, requiring the other three to lean in as well.

"Captain Wallace and Commander Bakunin have been talking about the commander taking his tankers through the mountains, try and flush them out," he whispered to them. "He's not making anything official, but he's aiming at the end of the month."

"Serious?" Tucker's eyes bulged. Terry frowned.

"It's all just talk right now. But everyone's getting edgy. Especially since with what happened at Echo Base last week..."

Here, they all looked down the row to where Corporals Tom Morrison and William O'Malley were sitting and eating quietly, sullen expressions upon their faces.

They all knew what had happened at Echo Base- or, at least, they had heard of the state it was in when reinforcements got flown in. All the people at Charlie Base knew was that last week, they had heard explosions at least ten klicks away from them, where they knew Echo Base was. From their lookout tower, they could see red-and-green-colored explosions, frequent and in vast quantities. It was like a destructive Fourth of July. It lasted about an hour and then everything faded into silence.

Captain Wallace had ordered some reinforcements flown in to check on the base's status. When they got there, they found the base was out of commission. The buildings were burned down, the radios were torn apart, the weapons were smashed...and the bodies were everywhere. All their own; there were no signs of any enemy corpses. All the dog tags were mysteriously stripped from the corpses, but it did not matter. By the end of the day, all two hundred bodies were accounted for.

One of the bodies had been Morrison's brother.

Morrison was from Glasgow, Scotland, and at thirty-seven had shaggy black hair that was still above regulations and an unshaven circle beard. His hard brown eyes used to twinkle with laughter, but now they were dull and flat and full of sadness and rage. He was married with a six-year-old daughter and had been very close to his brother. Since the attack on Echo Base, he had said very little, but had been seen creating and carrying around a stick with a large rock that had been carefully cut down and smoothed out so that the tip of one side was sharp and the other side was flat, resembling some sort of battle hammer/axe/whatever-you-wished-it. No one knew why he made it, but rumor was going around that he was planning to use it on the one who killed his brother, if ever he met the person.

Charlie sighed. The base had seemingly been torn apart by forces outside of guns and rockets. However, there was no sign of anyone else having been there, no rebel bodies, no rebel weapons, not even a discarded turban. One soldier did report on his way out- and he was certain he must have either imagined it, or just been so shocked by the destruction that his eyes were seeing things- of a cloud that seemed to form a skull with a snake slithering out of its mouth, but that was considered irrelevant given the matter.

Across from Morrison, William, or "Will" as he preferred to be called, was trying to comfort his friend. A thirty-five-year-old from County Cork, Ireland, Will was a tall man with fiery red hair and a pale face dotted with freckles; much like most stereotypical Irishmen. He was thin and quiet, but a "real ass-kicker", as Pete stated. Will was trained in karate, taekwondo, tai-chi, kung fu, hand-to-hand, sambo, and kapap, was an experienced black belt in taekwondo and sambo, and was the senior hand-to-hand drill instructor on the compound.

"Hey, Charlie."

The four looked up to see Derek "Doc" Powers come up. Doc was a thirty-one-year-old from Bristol, with brown hair and a pale face with a long nose. He was the chief medic of the company and was the primary physician, had been a doctor for the last two years, and his patients would admit that some of his treatments were a bit odd. He would collect herbs, leeches, and any other medicinal remedies long since abandoned and not widely practiced with anymore, just for the sake of when his current medical supplies ran out and he needed something to fall back upon. He also kept all the pill medication, specifically Murphy's, though there were several other soldiers in the unit who needed theirs as well. Doc was quiet and kept mostly to himself, often not even showing up into the enlisted club, but he was always there for any man who needed him, either with a wound or for medication.

"I took care of that dog that you found and sent him on his way," he told the clerk. "He just needed food and a shot of penicillin. Should be chasing after license plates again in no time."

"Thanks Doc. I really appreciate it." Charlie had a soft spot for animals, especially dogs.

Doc nodded and continued walking. The medic was mostly a loner, but he allowed a few people to crack through his shell and be friendly, and Charlie was one of them.

Cheers from the center of the hall echoed off the walls. The four of them turned to the fifty-plus people gathered around a small television, watching the football match between England and France. Pete and Archie were right in front, as per usual, both wearing their Manchester United T-shirts and cheering like frat boys. Whenever England scored, the fifty-plus howled in cheers. Whenever France scored, the fifty-plus voices all booed in protest. None of their French associates watched the game with them, so it was their only chance to cuss and insult the French football players without causing a fight.

The life of the base was one they could all enjoy. Rarely were they called away to actively participate in a battle; the rare times they did, they had few casualties. True, the occasional mortar was hurled their way, but the once in a blue moon time that they did, they never hit a thing. It was boring, and yet it was exciting, just due to them being where they were doing what they were doing. Like summer camp, with guns.

As long as they did not use them often, that was fine with them.

* * *

Not everyone chose to go to the enlisted men's quarters. A good portion of the men also spent their leisure time in their own bunks. Mainly the squad leaders and platoon sergeants, who liked to keep some distance from the lower-class enlisted men so that they could maintain their authority. They reflected, tuned up their weapons, read books, and, of course, talked.

On one side of Barracks No. 3, Staff Sergeants John Carter and Greg Pratt were sitting on their bunks. Carter was busy cleaning his M-240 machine gun, while Pratt was writing a letter to his girlfriend.

The two were among the three platoon sergeants, considered the "real" leaders of the platoons. The officers held the command, but the sergeants, for the most part, held the respect. That did not mean that there were not some officers that were liked, but the sergeants were liked more, because of how close they were to the men and how they took command in battle. Officers, for the most part, sent men into battle; sergeants, for the most part, lead them.

Carter looked up for a moment at what his best friend was writing. He was a tall, thin thirty-two-year-old man, another one of the "rich blokes" from Nottingham, with black hair, blue eyes, and a sharp nose. He had been a History teacher before joining the army, and had previously been on a National Guard enlistment. When his four-year-contract had expired, he decided to re-enlist, only this time go for a better division and better pay. When it came to machine-guns, he preferred the M-240 due to its reliability, and was the only member of the company to wield one. He always thought his actions through before he went into a fight, and always made a plan. He was, however, often very hard-headed and stubborn, and tended to think too seriously upon matters, often considering what COULD go wrong in any situation.

He read a few words of the letter and sighed.

"Christ, Greg, I told you before," he said, returning to his gun. "It's spelled, "R-E-C-_E_-I-V-E-D, not R-E-C-_I_-E-V-E-D. And Maggie's name has TWO "G's" in it."

Pratt grinned. He was a twenty-nine-year-old, slick, black-skinned soldier from Surrey Heath, born and raised to parents who made just enough money to get him and his brothers through school, which he himself never really excelled in. He was brown-eyed, with a shaved head kept under a bandana, and a goatee on his chin. He was a SAW gunner, and while not one of the best, he could still hit six cans out of ten. Unlike his friend, who took things too seriously, Pratt rarely took ANYTHING seriously. He was always laid back, always in a good mood, and always had a smile on his face. He was a good platoon sergeant who kept his men in line, but his carefree attitude had been noted upon by higher officers. Regardless, the men loved him because of how relaxed he was, and he stuck with Carter all the time, sometimes leading to the other man's annoyance.

"Relax, mate," he insisted. "It's not like she can read that well anyway."

Across from them, Sergeant Franky Grimes smiled while cleaning his CAR-15. The short, broad-shouldered sergeant was from Belfast, Ireland, with red hair, a red beard to support it, and blue eyes. He was a ten-year veteran at thirty, and had been with the company since its formation. Grimes had the patience and calm superiority of an officer, but the young, fun-loving charisma of an enlisted soldier, and it was this reason that kept him as a sergeant. He was a crack shot, and always managed to hit every target he saw, though he was still behind Weber in regards to best marksman of the unit.

"You keep this up, mate, Captain's going to insist you get sent back to school." Carter spit on the barrel and swiped it clean. "You're almost thirty, and you can't even spell your girlfriend's bloody name right."

Pratt just laughed. Carter shook his head. It was like trying to have a discussion with a nine-year-old.

"John, you're the teacher," Grimes reminded him. "Why don't you teach him?"

"I tried. You ever try to get him to learn about King Louis XVI? It's like trying to teach a three-year-old _math_, he just refuses to learn it."

The sergeants spent their nights fixing up their weapons so that they were always in top condition. The weapons used by the soldiers were always kept in the armory, along with the rest of the munitions, but the men were allowed to take them out for maintenance. They were constantly cleaning their weapons, because they never knew when they would need to use them.

There were six other men in the barracks with them, and these were the members of Sergeant Shane Keaney's squad. This was their main "A" squad, their recon-and-assault team, and the one they relied on the most in battle but the least in downtime. They were made up of the sergeant himself, his second-in-command known as Anwar Hussein; Doug Redfield, the big, thick-nosed weapons specialist; Jack Coupland, the tall, pointy-nosed medic; Frank McCoy, the baby-faced marksman; and Sam Mathenson, their balding, edgy point man. In battle, they always covered the men with suppressing fire, but on the base, they always stuck together, and stuck to themselves.

Keaney was a thirty-nine-year-old man from Bristol, the oldest member of a team of thirty-six, thirty five, and one thirty-two-year-old men. He had brown hair that was beginning to show signs of gray, cold gray eyes that some said could see through the dark as though they were high-beams, and a cold smile that made anyone wishing to be his friend turn away quick. He and his men were well-built, due to pushing themselves through calisthenics and weights faster and harder than anyone else. They were also the sneakiest men in the whole company; they could be in and out of anywhere, like a squad of ghosts.

No one knew the story behind Keaney and his mates. Some say they came down from a Special Ops. team and wanted to work in a less-demanding job. Others believed they had been mercenaries, hired guns, used to perform jobs for the government officials for money. Some thought they were simply fugitives, looking to join up to escape a life of crime. No one knew, and no one felt like going up to them during tea time and asking them. They did their thing, and everyone else did theirs.

As close as the men were, there were things in life that some would rather just forget. Although the majority of them had lived rather dull, uneventful lives, some had seen things they would rather forget. Occasionally- and this was usually when the men decided to have a drinking night- they would break the shells open and talk about some of these things. Other times, they clammed up.

It was this silence that went universally respected by all. Every man was entitled to their secrets, and they were no exceptions.

* * *

Captain Wallace stepped into the headquarters and immediately ripped his hat off and stuffed it in his back pocket. The other officers and the first sergeant looked up briefly as he entered and then went back to their business.

"Is she patched in?"

"Aye, Captain, she'll be in soon," answered Lieutenant Port, typing on one of the laptops and then stepping back to let his superior get on.

William Port had come from an affluent family in London and had been a professor of English at a small college before he was persuaded to join by an associate. He was convinced that his time would involve better benefits for when he got out; maybe even get promoted to head of the English Department. As mentioned before, he was obedient to command, and was a stern leader to the troops, but he was not one who really stood out among the leaders. He was present and respected, but he never did much to really stand out as a real commander. He was Captain Wallace's friend and X.O., and that was all he was viewed at.

The other two officers, Chris Winters and Richard Hunter, were other stories. They were the north and south ends of the officer pool; one was well-loved, the other, well-hated. They both came from different ends of society, different backgrounds, and had different ways of interacting and leading their men.

Lieutenant Hunter was from York, thirty-seven years old, tall and beefy with a shaved head and brown eyes. He came from an extremely wealthy family, enough to own several businesses and his own law firm, and had gone to a wealthy college with exceptional grades. He had been a lawyer back home, and an extremely successful one, but his experience as a platoon leader was as limited as they came. Not only did he not know how to properly lead, he was not hard-pressed to learn. He fought the captain on the decisions he made, he failed to listen to his sergeants, and he did not come up with a single concrete plan of his own. No one knew why he had wanted to join the army, let alone be an officer, and quite frankly, none of them cared to know.

If Hunter was the Mr. Hyde of the officer pool, then Lieutenant Winters was his Jekyll. A twenty-eight-year-old from Glasgow, with dark brown-red hair, green eyes, and freckles on his nose, Winters came from a family-run farm that most years could not afford to make the yearly taxes. He had come from a community college, had done well in classes, but had to leave when he could no longer afford tuition. Determined to find a way for himself, he had enrolled in a officers training school to become a platoon leader. It was here that he finally succeeded; he was loved by his men, he was able to think for himself, and he obeyed an order without question unless he saw it was too risky to send men into.

When it came down to it, with the exception of maybe First Sergeant Peter Evansmann, Lieutenant Hunter was disliked by everyone. When it came down to it, with the exception of maybe First Sergeant Evansmann, Lieutenant Winters was loved by everyone.

Scott Wallace came from Stirling, Scotland; the very town where William Wallace and Andrew Moray had turned themselves into legends by defending the Stirling Bridge, so many years ago. As a junior officer he had been well-liked by his men, a good leader, able to think on his feet and keep everyone calm. But when he became company commander, something changed in the relationship between him and his men. It was like he had transcended to the rank of God. When he walked by, they stopped what they were doing and stood at attention. When he spoke, they shut their mouths and listened. Nothing was official in their world unless it came from his mouth, and this decree came not from him, but from them.

No one understood the amount of dedication they gave to him, not even themselves. And none of them questioned why they did it. It was an unwritten rule; he was in charge, so listen to him. The power he held over them was one in which he would order them to hurl themselves off a cliff and they would be pushing themselves to be first in line. It was a mix of kindergarten students admiring the well-liked teacher and schoolgirls admiring a handsome celebrity. He was on his way to being a company legend, and the men did not want it any other way.

"Signal's in, Captain. She's all yours," Lieutenant Winters called over with a grin.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," the captain replied, smiling back.

Wallace had met his wife at the University for the Creative Arts in Farnham during their freshman year. Back then, he had been studying to be a writer, and Lisa Wallace- who back then had been Lisa Hanson- had been from Dundee, studying to be a teacher. Their meeting was chance; he had been out with a friend and visiting a friend of his friend, who happened to be with his "harem" as he liked to call it, one of whom had been his future wife. They met and hit it off instantly. A week later, he took her to the movies on their first date, and things had been running smoothly ever since then. Now, fifteen years later, she was teaching Creative Arts at Cumbernauld College, and he was in the army to find inspiration, and also be able to have further career opportunities to be able to support himself, his wife, and his soon-to-be-one-year-old daughter.

Another thing that made Wallace a hero to his men was his passion for his family. He was the classic family man, a wife and a daughter, a nice cottage in the highlands. It was the kind of scenario that some of the men already had, and what most of the men wanted to have. They were envious of that, most had only dreamed of such a life, but the captain lived it and cherished every day of it.

"Camera on in three...two...and we're patched."

The camera flicked on, revealing the two women that somewhere to the north were looking into their own camera at him. One of them was thirty-three, short and skinny, with light brown hair and beautiful brown eyes. She was pretty, not the kind of pretty that would bring saliva from the mouth, but the kind of pretty that would keep a man captivated for twenty minutes straight, where he would get lost in looking at her without even realizing it. It was not the kind of pretty that made a man get hard at the thought of a one-nighter in bed, but the kind of pretty that would open a jar of butterflies into a man's open mouth only to have them flutter around in his stomach. She was book smart and kind and sweet and everything one wanted in a wife, despite her sometimes clumsiness and her lack of knowledge involving the Star Wars trilogy.

The other one was a baby girl, not yet one year old. On her egg-shaped head was a tiny puff of her father's dark hair, thin now but soon to be thick like her old man's. She had her mother's brown eyes that looked innocent even when she had knocked over a cookie jar and it shattered on the floor. She had pudgy little fingers that had a tight grip when squeezed around someone else's finger, and she was not yet teething, although they expected her to start soon. Her round face knew nothing of the conflicts of the world and would remain oblivious for three or four more years, longer if Scott Wallace had something to say about it.

"There are my girls," said Wallace with a smile.

"_Hey!" _Lisa Wallace exclaimed with excitement in her fair Scottish accent, a huge smile showing her neat white teeth. "_How are you?_"

"Other than I miss my women and it's very hot here, I'm fine. I'm thinking more of how you're doing."

"_We miss her daddy." _Lisa looked down at her child. _"Can you say hi to Daddy? Say hi, Daddy!"_

"Hey, Little Lady!" He waved to his little girl, who smiled and giggled playfully. "Lisa, love, she's gotten so big. What are you feeding her?"

"_She's starting to feed herself a little bit now. She tried eating apple sauce all by herself, although I think more landed on her shirt than in her mouth."_

He laughed. Lieutenants Port and Winters gave each other looks. Wallace was three different men. Out of combat, he was calm, mellow, and collected, having civil and intelligent conversations all the while looking more like a general than a captain. In combat, he was fierce and motivated, barking orders left and right, leading the charges, taking the first shots, lobbing grenades and making sure his men were alright and doing what they were supposed to be doing. And then when his wife called, he was yet another man entirely. He was almost like a giant teddy bear; soft, voice raised slightly higher, speaking in kid speak. For a few moments, he got to be a dad instead of a captain.

"_Guess what?"_

"What?"

"_She crawled yesterday."_

His widened. "She did not."

"_She did! She crawled down the hall from her bedroom into the kitchen. I videotaped some of it."_

"That a girl," he said, tapping her face on the monitor. "You'll be running with the rest of us before long."

"_It's a bit too soon for that, don't you think?"_

"Nonsense. She's a Wallace. Very determined men and women in this family." He looked up at his wife and smiled tenderly. "She's beautiful. Just like her mother."

She smiled just as lovingly back at him. They worked well together- he helped keep her calm and mellow, and she supported him even when he felt like a failure. There was an understanding between them, an attraction that could not really be explained no matter how hard one tried. They just worked; it was one of those one-in-a-million things that just clicked so well and had no explanation for it, nor needed one.

As bad as war was- and no one would ever see it as good- there were some things that could make life in the desert better for the men. A letter from home would brighten up someone's day. A package would make somebody's week. And a phone call, one simple minute of hearing a loved one's voice, would make somebody ecstatic for two whole months. A married man's wife would up it to six.

Sometimes, with a simple letter and a voice, a man's life in Hell would turn into five minutes in Heaven.

* * *

Tubbs stepped out of the latrine and zipped up his fly. He looked up at the night sky, at the stars that dotted all over like thousands of little diamonds, and whistled to himself.

What a night. Back home he had never appreciated star gazing, but since his arrival here six weeks ago, he had become fascinated with finding constellations. One time, he had seen a shooting star, and had even gone so far as to make a wish; something he had not done since he was five.

Being out here was like being on recess. Aside from morning inspection and when they headed out to the city, life here was as casual as a skate park. The men all treated each other as equals, except for the officers who (for the most part) they treated like gods. The food...could be better, but it was edible. The showers...ran out of hot water after every ten showers, but he had made a point to get up at the crack of dawn so that he was the first in at the beginning of the day. Cable was limited to the sports games and the news, both of which he could do without but since his arrival he had started reading more so that took place of the television times.

He sighed, as he walked calmly around the compound, hoping to find all of Orion instead of just his belt. Back home he had always been the fat kid that everyone picked on. Joining the army had cut him down twenty pounds, but he had his nickname for a reason, and the reason was the gut that sometimes hung over his pants like a bad smell. Guys like Danny and the Freedman brothers were going to start putting him through some exercises to help slim him down some more, and he was optimistic. Hopefully when he went back home to his mother, she would faint at the sight of how skinny he had become.

His only real issue was death. That either he killed someone or one of his friends...or him, died. So far, although he'd only been out three times, he'd been lucky. No deaths, no wounds. And he had not killed anyone, as far as he knew, unless a bullet somehow ricocheted and went off and hit a rebel behind cover, which seemed physically impossible to him. He knew that he would have to draw fire on someone some day, but the innocent feeling of being new to war was a feeling he did not quite feel like letting go of yet.

He walked around, stopping once or twice to try to pinpoint a correct constellation, when he reached the generator towards the edge of the camp. There, he was surprised to find that he was not out alone this night. There were three men gathered in a small circle next to the generator, either not talking or talking so low that he could not hear them. Figuring that it would be nice to have some company, Tubbs placed his hands in his pockets and walked off towards them.

As he got closer, he began to notice something odd about them. They were not wearing green, or anything resembling normal clothing, or at least, as normal as army T-shirt and cargo pants went. They were not wearing civilian clothing either, not even the desert garb of the locals. No, these people were wearing black robes, pitch black, the tops pointed up as though they were in a cult. He frowned. He had not known the guys had a Dungeons and Dragons thing going.

"Hey, what's going on over here?" he called out as he got to the generator.

They all turned to him. His eyes widened.

These men were tall, and their faces were covered in skull-shaped masks that covered all of their face with the exception of their mouths, which were twisted into evil snarls. Whoever they were, they were not their own men.

They raised their arms, each hand holding what looked like an ordinary stick. Tubbs panicked and hastily whipped out his M92F handgun. He pointed it at the one closest and tried to make himself pull the trigger, half prepared and half mortified that the moment had come at last and he had to pull the trigger in order to save his own li-

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

Tubbs never saw it coming. The attacker had come from the side, out of his peripheral vision. A bright green light flew at him and struck him in the side of the head. His body flew backwards and out of sight behind the generator. His handgun flew out of his hands and slammed against the generator and then to the ground.

The three men lowered their wands as their leader came forward from where he had been hiding, his wand pointed at where the Mudblood had been standing. He lowered his wand and stared up at the night sky.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with combed back dirty-blonde hair, cold gray eyes, and a blonde patch of hair on his chin. His was the only face not covered by a mask, and his hood was pushed backwards. His wand was thirteen inches and made of oak, with dragon heartstring as its core. He was a man of honor, and though he made it his mission to exterminate the Mudblood filth, it was not below him to allow an honorable fight between him and his opponent, one last attempt to make a good use of its pathetic life before it was snuffed out. To his men, he showed compassion, if only from time to time. To his enemies, he showed an undying loathing.

"Have the dementors circle above the camp," he said in a low, gruff voice that was deep enough to be the Devil's. "Do not have them attack. Our armies will commence the attack when I give the order."

The three men bowed and then suddenly disappeared as if they had never even been there.

He looked around at the brightly lit buildings and could not suppress his smirk. The Mudbloods had no idea of what was going on. He preferred it that way; the quicker this was done, the easier it was for him and his men.

He looked at the generator, aimed his wand at it, and with a simple flick and swish, the base was thrown into darkness.

* * *

I hope you guys know what the opening passage is from.

If you regularly read my stuff, I really really hope you guys know.

This chapter actually took about two years to write. No, I doubt the rest of the chapters will take that long.

As you can most likely tell, I put a lot of work into this. Did my research, prayed to God it was accurate, yada yada yada. I don't want any of you saying I'm not dedicated to my work, however, if you know of anything I got wrong, i.e., ranking, units, weapons, etc., please let me know.

Just don't be assholes about it.

That's all I ask.

So yeah, this is my new story. I know it's very...different, from other Harry Potter fanfiction, but that's me. I like to break the barrier and attempt the previously-thought-un-attemptable. I like to test myself. And I hope the audience enjoys what I put out there.

This is definitely a character-driven story. I've never attempted a war story of this magnitude before, and so I want to make sure I get everything right. As such, the battles will be epic, the suspense will be terrific, the humor will be pitch-black and hopefully funny, but most of all, I want the characters to be likable. That is my goal this time around; for the readers to love the characters.

So let me know what you think in the reviews, favorite and subscribe if you dare, praise or criticize if you will, and I'll see you all next time.

Peace.


	2. Under Siege

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: T for language and heavy war scenes.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** Here is Chapter Two, and holy mother of God this is the LONGEST chapter I have ever written. Every time I write that I've made the longest chapter, I end up topping myself. It's amazing.

Anyway, this is the chapter for the actual action, so I hope you enjoy it for that.

Enjoy!

* * *

Under Siege

Scott Wallace should have realized something was seriously wrong the moment the power went out.

He had been talking to his wife about the baby when the static came in, interrupting the feed and shortening out the microphone.

"What the..." Scott frowned and spoke louder. "Honey, you there?"

"_Sco_..." Lisa's voice came in fuzzy and unclear.

"Lisa, if you can hear me, I love you, I'll be home real soon!" He shouted right before the screen- and all the lights and computers with it- went out forever.

"_Fuck_!" He slammed his fist on the counter. His first chance to phone home in months and the power goes out. If it was karma, it was obviously something he had done in a past life, for he could not think of anything he could have done to deserve this kind of punishment in this one.

"The hell's going on?" Hunter frowned, tapping the top of his computer, hard, twice. "Computer's down. A little warning would have been nice."

"Dark outside," said Winters, glancing out the window. "Something wrong with the generator?"

"Not sure..." Wallace turned to his X.O. "Port, radio the pilots and see if they can report any other bases spoting trouble."

Port nodded and picked up the receiver and was about to push a number when he stopped cold. He looked down at the receiver in his hand, then placed it back on its hook and looked at the captain, a concerned look on his face.

"Comms are down, too," he announced.

When the video feed had gone out, Scott had been, to say the least, pissed. When Hunter and Winters had made their reports, his frustration had gradually faded to concerned puzzlement. But now, now that their link to the outside world was down, when there was no way to contact air support or get evacuated in case of a serious attack...now that that was down, Captain Scott Wallace was officially worried.

He looked out the window at his base, now lost in darkness. Okay, he thought, no reason to truly panic yet. His men must be aware of something going wrong, and surely his platoon sergeants and squad leaders would group the men together and start inspecting the camp, looking for trouble. It could not possibly be an attack- they would have received some warning- but just in case, they would need to get weapons and ammo ready.

It was time for him to take command. He grabbed his jacket and ran for the door, his lieutenants right behind him.

The minute he stepped out, he felt a sudden chill that went deep into his bones.

* * *

When the power went out in the enlisted's club, it was met by a much louder burst of protest, ranging from the individual voices ("_Oye_! Who turned the bleedin' lights off?" "How am I supposed to read this sodding book if someone keeps throwing us into the dark?" "Turn the power back on, I'm in the middle of a fucking _movie_!") to the fifty plus voices simultaneously screaming "NO!!!" as they missed the final moments of the football match.

Danny, who had been in the middle of writing a letter to his brothers, looked up as the lights flickered and went out. Power outage? That had never happened before, at least, not as long as their company had been based here. He turned to Matthews (at least, he thought it was Matthews, it was hard to tell in the pitch dark), who was looking around the room at everyone else.

"Did Captain say anything about going dark?" he wondered.

"Not to my recollection," the voice (which confirmed the man as Matthews) responded.

"Bleedin' tossin' fuckheads-"

"_Ouch_! Dammit, Petey, sit bloody still, you tossing wanker!"

Pete had sat down in the chair that ironically was occupied by Danny, resulting in the formers ass landing right on the latter's junk. Danny kicked him off, but Pete shook it off, grumbling under his breath.

"Can't believe I missed the last few minutes of the footy for this shite!" he exclaimed. "It's England verse France, full on bloody war, and I don't get to see who fuckin' wins! What the _fuck-_!"

"Alright, EVERYBODY, _SHUT UP_!"

All at once, the chatter died. Sergeant Price flipped on a Tilley, his battle-hardened face illuminated by the flame as he looked around the room at the other men. Danny recognized the face immediately; the war face had been put on.

"All of you, calm down," he ordered. "Organize yourselves, and keep your heads straight. Let's figure this out."

Around the room, Tilley lights were lit up. Danny, Matthews, and Pete met up with Finn, Owen, Archie, Morrison, and Will. Tubbs, Danny noticed, was still off taking a piss; he just hoped the lad would find his way back alright in the dark. Marek joined up with them not long afterwards, still smiling, the only calm person in the room.

"Quite an event tonight, eh lads?" he asked them, then glanced up and shouted at the ceiling, "What fun do you have in store for us tonight, Father?"

Pete snorted under his breath. Will and Morrison exchanged confused glances. Danny ignored him and turned his attention to Price, who was now conferring with a worried-looking Sykes. The radioman looked paler than usual.

"Sarge," he was saying, "I can't get anyone on the comms. Not command, not air travel, can't even get a hold of the motor pool. No static, no interference. It's just dead."

Danny could see the anxious look on the sergeant's face. The gravity was starting to set in: someone did not want them calling for help.

"Charlie," Price called out, "run over to command and see what the damage is. Get our orders while you're at it."

"On it," proclaimed Charlie, immediately rushing out of the room.

Something did not feel right. Danny looked around the room. There was that old familiar feeling of something wrong, even when there did not appear to be anything wrong aside from borderline mass panic. He shivered as he tried not to think of the worst-case scenario of an ambush...and then he realized that thinking of the worst-case scenario was not causing the shivering.

He was really cold.

He was surprised. True, nights in the desert got cold sometimes, but this was almost arctic weather. And it seemed, he was even more startled to find, that it came mostly from himself. He felt lonely, miserable; he tried to remember a happy time and found that he could not. He looked around at the other faces illuminated by the Tilleys and wondered if any of them were feeling the same thing.

"Bleeding Christ," he heard Jason suddenly call out. "Did the temperature just drop fifty fucking degrees? It's colder than an Eskimo's arsehole in here!"

Answering his question, Danny began to hear the complaints begin to crop up all around the building. He saw his friends start shivering as they too began to feel the effects. So he was not imagining the cold, was he imagining the empty feeling? Feelings could be as contagious as the flu in winter time, and when something was wrong they all usually felt it.

"You feeling anything?" he asked Matthews.

"Aside from cold?" Matthews shivered. "A little odd. Like...there aren't any good feelings left...if that makes sense-"

"It does. I'm feeling the same way."

The two gave each other a long look. If they felt it, then the others definitely did. And it was not an ordinary feeling of a looming battle. They had never felt anything like this before.

"Holy..._Guys_!"

Twenty heads turned in the direction of the window, where Tucker had been innocently leaning against it. Danny, Matthews, and Marek pushed through to see what the commotion was.

And from there on in, things just kept getting stranger.

The window was slowly freezing over. Ice was sliding over like fire on a gasoline-lit table, occasionally cracking as it went. Tucker placed his hand up against it, and the ice formed a pattern around it. He backed it away and showed a clear handprint before ice slowly wrapped its way over that as well. All around, soldiers began exclaiming as the other windows began to do the same.

"What the fuck is going on out there?" they heard Owen ask.

"Alright," Sergeant Price's voice bellowed. "Everyone to the armory. Suit up. If something is happening, I'd rather we be prepared."

There were no complaints there as the men followed their sergeant out the door, some nervous, some scared, but most determined.

* * *

"Power outage?" Staff Sergeant Pratt looked up as the lights flickered off, then around at the others. "We under attack?"

"Can't be," replied Carter, also looking up concernedly. "Would've gotten some warning, wouldn't we?"

Sergeant Grimes wondered that too. The rebels were certainly capable of sneak attacks- ones they had been on the receiving end of many times- but even then they had had some prior knowledge, and the power had never been cut. This was completely unexpected.

There was a loud _slap!_ at the end of the hallway as Sergeant Keaney slid a magazine into his M-4. His squads rifles had been customized with scopes, silencers, hand grips and laser-targeting devices, but only Keaney's came with an M-203 grenade launcher attached to the bottom. He stood up, his team following suit.

"We should make our way to command," his low, deep voice shot through the dark. "Formulate a strategy."

Grimes and the two staff sergeants nodded (though it was hard for anyone but themselves to know that) as they got up and lead the way out, weapons ready for anything and everything.

* * *

In the motor pool, Ryan, Sully, Tony and Murphy were chatting and laughing while they were doing maintenance on a Humvee when the power went out. The one light that was on flickered twice, went out, came back on, then went out again and stayed out.

"The hell?" Tony walked over to the switch and flipped it up and down several times, to no avail.

"That's odd," Sully frowned. "I just checked the genny the other day. It was working fine."

"Murph, call command, ask what's going on," ordered Ryan.

Murphy walked over to the phone and took it off the receiver and brought it to his ear. With his other hand he began to push the call button when he stopped, listened for a little bit, looked at it, and then placed it back on its original position.

He looked back at them. "Phones are down too."

"What does that mean, then?" Tony wondered. "Does that mean we're under attack?"

There was a small silence, broken from the loud noise of a shotgun pump as Sergeant Ryan picked up his Mossberg 500 that he kept taped to the bottom of his desk.

"Sully, you have your sixty on you?" he asked.

"Aye." Sully had taken it out to perform some maintenance on the barrel and sights. He did this regularly, as he always wanted to keep it in top condition. One never knew when a 60 was needed.

"Bring it. We're going to check the generator, and I'm getting the feeling we're going to need it."

* * *

Michael Stern flicked on his Tilley and peered out into the darkness. From what he could see, his quarters was not the only building experiencing technical difficulties.

Now, logically speaking, this could mean a couple of different things. The generator could simply be malfunctioning, and was undergoing maintenance.

Except they had already done survey on it, and it had been fine.

Now, logically speaking, this could mean a couple of different things as well. They could just be going dark as a precaution. Rebels did like to patrol from time to time, and whenever that happened, they would have to go dark and either let them pass or prepare an ambush to take them out quickly.

Only the captain had not given them a heads up. And he always gave them a heads up.

Now, logically speaking, _this_ could mean a couple of different things. Someone- Terry, he was sure of it- could just be playing a prank. Maybe to get back at an individual, or just for shits and giggles.

Pfft. Yeah right. Not even Terry was that stupid.

No, something was wrong. Whether it was an attack, or something had malfunctioned on purpose, there was something afoul in the air.

He looked on the table, where the only two things that lay were his M92F and the object that the lads had found in Weber's tent. Was that what was going on? Did whoever make this thing want it back? It seemed so insignificant, yet so mysterious. Somebody must want it back.

He reached for his handgun and examined it. He ejected the clip, checked the cartridge to see all fifteen bullets stuffed neatly in, slammed it back in, pulled back the top half of the barrel and released it so that it slid back into place. He stuffed it into the back of his buckle and turned to François.

"Wait here," he said. "I'll be back in a bit."

François started speaking in rapid French then, but Stern held up his hand.

"Mate, even if I knew what you were saying, I would probably still say no to it," he told him. "Just stay out of trouble while I'm gone, alright?"

He patted the Frenchman on the back and pushed open the door. François watched him go with a sigh.

"_J'ai besoin d'obtenir un livre de traduction..."_

* * *

_(A/N- Any time I have any of the French, Russian, or German soldiers speaking in their languages, I'll just put what they are saying, and if you want to know the translation, just look in my notes after the chapter.)_

* * *

Wallace and his men stood outside of command for a moment as they felt the near-freezing weather. From the outside, they could see their own breath rise from their mouths in steam. Now they were spooked. As cold as the nights got, this was just too cold.

And not only that, there was a bit of fog rolling in. That was what intrigued Wallace the most. He had never seen fog out here, mainly because they never really got enough hard rain to warrant fog, but yet here it was.

"Spooky," he heard Lieutenant Winters whisper.

"Captain Wallace!"

The soldiers from Barracks No. 3 had arrived. Keaney's team was covering the rear, in a fully alert walking stance, something the other sergeants had not adapted to at the moment. Grimes had a worried look on his face, Carter looked apprehensive; even Pratt, who was usually calm and collected, looked on edge.

"Is this everyone from your barracks, Grimes?" Wallace asked, looking around.

"Everyone who was in there when the power shorted," his sergeant replied. "What's going on, sir? Are we under attack?"

"Don't know yet." He turned to Winters and Hunter. "Get over to the armory. That's where the other men are. Have them distribute ammo and grenades evenly. If there's panic, do what you can to keep them calm. Take Pratt and Carter with you."

"Yes, sir." Both lieutenants nodded and headed off, their platoon sergeants accompanying not far behind.

"Keaney," Wallace turned his attention to the squad leader. "Take your team and do a quick sweep of the compound. Stay together, I don't care how long it takes, no one goes off alone. Any breaches, anything at all suspicious, I want a radio check. Understand?"

Keaney nodded, whistled to his men, tapped his head with his fist and then ordered them forward. They took off swiftly and stealthily, sticking to shadows.

"What about me, sir?" Grimes wanted to know.

"You stay close to me. You'll me my sniper escort."

"Will do, Captain."

"Captain! Captain Wallace!"

The out-of-breath running of Charlie broke through the darkness as though the Devil were chasing him. He stopped just in front of his commander, breathing heavily, then stood straight up.

"Sykes has reported a comms failure," he told them. "Sergeant Price sent me here with orders, sir."

"Well, my guess is he's taken most of the men to the armory already, so just have them wait there for me. Tell Price I've got Keaney's team on patrol, have the rest of the men organize into groups so they can join them."

"Right. I'm on it."

"And Charlie, no one goes off alone. You hear? You get back there, and you pair up with someone and make sure everyone else does the same. Teamwork. I don't want any soldiers going solo."

"Can do, sir." And without even a sip of water, he was off again.

More footsteps to their rear signaled the arrival of Lieutenant Hirko and about ten of his men. Most of them were in their pajamas, with the exception of the lieutenant and his right-hand man, _Sergent-Chef _Roger Callard. Two of them were carrying long-barreled hunting rifles; probably the sentries. All of them looked tired, but Wallace knew that the French were more alert than the majority of the men on the base.

"Technical malfunction, Captain Wallace?" Hirko remarked with a raised brow.

"Let's hope, Lieutenant," came the reply from the Scotsman. "Would you be kind enough to wake Nicholai and his men and have them warm their tanks up?"

"Are we expecting trouble that big?"

"For now, _Sous-Lieutenant_, I would rather we be prepared for anything."

"I understand. Very well, I will go." Hirko managed a quick nod and then turned, his men right on his heels, to the Russian side of the compound.

Scott wondered if he should go and have Weber's team awoken, but decided that if there was something wrong, the Germans were already up and running their own patrols. Everyone knew, or had suspicion of, something being wrong. No one would be sleeping on the job; even a job as unexpected as this.

He shivered. He had rarely ever felt so cold. Not even memories of his family were warming up, as they usually did.

What the hell was going on?

* * *

The motor pool team treaded slowly. Ryan took the lead with his shotgun, while Sully took the rear with his M-60. Tony and Murphy remained in the middle, the former with his own shotgun, the latter with just his Glock. Ryan and Murphy had lights below the barrels of their weapons, and so their lights guided them to their destination.

They heard footsteps behind them. All four turned their weapons in that direction.

"Identify yourself, or you're dead," Ryan growled.

"Whoa! Hold up, it's me, Mikey!"

Stern came forward, his free hand in front of his face to keep the light out of his eyes, the hand holding his gun limp at his side. He glared at them as they lowered their weapons.

"'Identify yourself, or you're dead?' What the hell is going on around here?" he demanded.

"Sorry, Mike," Sully said. "I think we're all just a bit on edge. Where you headed?"

"To check the generator. You?"

"Same. You might as well tag along, you shouldn't be out here alone."

They fell back into step, now five men instead of four. Stern felt better with the company, as much distance as he tried to put between himself and the others. The place got spooky when all the lights turned off, and his mind had been playing games with him since he had left his lab. He was glad for companions, even if talking was to a minimum.

They made their way over to the generator without a problem. Stern felt some surprise. He was half-expecting the entire rebel faction to swoop in on them, take them out before they could even finishing tying their boots. If the generator was where the party was, he expected the hosts to already be there. But either they were late to their own party, or they themselves had gotten the wrong night, because there was not a soul standing guard as Tony began inspecting the machine.

"This can't be right..." he said after some time had passed.

"What?" Ryan asked.

"There's...nothing wrong."

"What?" Stern pushed forward to get a better look.

"Serious," Tony stood up. "No parts missing, fan belt's in ship shape, oil's brand new. I mean it, there's nothing wrong with it."

"If nothing is wrong, then why isn't it working?" the staff sergeant demanded.

"You must have missed something. Move over, let me look," insisted Stern.

"Oye, who's the bloody mechanic? I know machines, Mikey, and I know that nothing is wrong with this one."

"Well, that's just not possible. It wouldn't just malfunction for no reason, something must be wrong."

Sully sighed and looked up at the sky. This was just too weird. He had been working with machines for a very long time, and never had he just have a machine not work for no reason; no machine was that self-aware. This whole thing smelled like sabotage. He took a step forward and felt something under his foot, something that did not feel like sand pebbles...

He looked down and aimed his flashlight down. He found his foot had fell upon the grip of an M92F, the light under the barrel turned on. He frowned. Who left their pistol laying around? He glanced around, taking a few steps to see if someone else was around. He glanced quickly behind the generator, looked away, stopped, and looked back.

His face went pale.

"Lads..."

"Well, if you're the fucking genius here then, you tell me what's wrong with it!"

"Probably your pathetic maintenance skills, that's sure to do the trick!"

"Alright, both of you, knock it off-"

"_Lads!"_

The argument stopped as the four heads turned towards the fifth one. Sully looked back at them and pointed off behind the generator. Ryan pushed past them and walked over to look. His face paled as he saw what it was. The other three came up then. Murphy immediately looked away, breathing heavily. Tony placed his hands on his head. Stern just looked in disbelief.

"Christ...Tubbs..."

The five stared at the large body of Private Robbins. His arms and legs were bent at odd angles, his head tilted to the side. His eyes were staring right up at the sky, and on first glance, Stern would have thought him simply star-gazing, only his eyes were not moving or blinking. Nor was his chest making any visible movement.

Ryan walked over and bent down to check his pulse. He gazed over him, examining the form, saying nothing. Stern could not take it.

"Is he dead?" he asked.

Ryan still did not answer.

"Sarge, for Christ's sakes, is he dead?!"

"Aye, he's dead alright..." He looked up. "Someone go and get Doc Powers over here."

"I'm on it," proclaimed Murphy, running off without taking another look at the corpse.

Stern took another step closer. The body did not smell, or at least, no worse than Tubbs had smelled when he had been alive, but he covered his mouth to keep himself from vomiting. He hated to look at the bodies after a battle; he would always go off somewhere to clear his head and never did he help with the burials. But he approached this one because something seemed off. He bent down next to Sarge, looking for what was off, but not until he looked up at Tubbs' face that he realized what was wrong.

"There aren't any entry wounds," he remarked.

"No," Ryan agreed, gently turning the body over. "No knife marks or signs of being strangled either. Whatever happened to him, it wasn't a rebel."

"Heart attack?"

"Maybe. Definitely possible."

"But?"

"But I don't know. He just happens to show up dead just as the power goes out? Seems too close to be coincidence."

Sully and Tony stood weapons ready, now fully alert. Stern took it all in. Okay, Tubbs had died of...what? Heart attack seemed likely, no one but the doc had known his cholesterol levels. Had his death triggered the power failure? That seemed just as likely, maybe he had brushed against something, caused a malfunction. He certainly was big enough.

But the problem there was, as Tony continually insisted, nothing was wrong with it. It was in good working order; it just was not working. And if Tubbs had not caused, then what had? And was whatever had also responsible for Tubbs?

Too many questions, not enough answers. Something was definitely not right here...

* * *

"We don't know what's going on," Price shouted as he loaded his L-85 A-1, looking around as the other men loaded their weapons up. "But we're going to be ready for anything. I want group patrols, three-and-four-man teams. Report in anything suspicious that you see."

"We see anyone, we shoot them on sight?" asked Terry as he slapped a magazine into his G-3.

"Take any alive if you can. My bet, though, is they're going to shoot before you can, so if they raise the gun, be sure to put them down."

"Danny." Matthews tossed his friend an MP-5, which Danny caught one-handed. He removed the clip, checked it, slapped it back in, pulled back the bolt and released it. He looked back at his friend as Matthews loaded up his SAW.

All around, soldiers were preparing themselves for what seemed like an upcoming war. They loaded themselves, not only with weapons and ammunition, but grenades, explosives, knives, and extra handguns. The heavy gunners even strapped a LAW or RPG to their back for the just-in-case. Soldiers stuffed pouch after pouch with ammunition for their own weapons and for the machine-guns. Sykes and Pete argued over preferred weapons; the former had a MP-5N submachine gun, and the latter had the standard M-16 A-2. Owen helped strap a LAW-66 to Finn's back. Carter and Pratt exchanged grenades and handgun clips while loading themselves with their own ammunition.

The door burst open as Murphy staggered in. he looked around, found Sergeant Price, and rushed towards him. Danny looked up at him. His face looked scared.

"W-where's Doc at?" he stammered.

"What's the problem, Murph?" Price asked.

"Tubbs is dead."

The twenty heads in the immediate vicinity immediately looked up at the news. Among them were Danny and Matthews, who looked at each other and back in shock.

"You're certain?" Price asked, face grave.

"Ryan needs Doc to come check him," answered Murphy. "But yeah, we're pretty sure."

"What happened, Murph? What got him?" asked Danny angrily. Now he was getting mad. One of theirs- the newbie, as it often happened- had turned up dead and they still have no clue as to what was going on. Any normal person would be frightened; they, however, were just getting pissed.

"Not quite sure. They were examining him when I left, they might still be working on it."

"Doc," Price called, "we've got a case for you. Head over to the generator with Murphy and check Tubbs' body."

"On it," Doc said quietly, still looking in shock of the news but grabbing his MP-5 and following Murphy, who took an M-4 and some ammunition, to the destination.

"Alright, lads!" Price shouted, turning back to the rest of the men. "The situation has changed. We've got a man down at the generator; we need to move it along now before someone else ends up the same. This isn't a game, gents. We are now up against live, hostile targets. Get those weapons loaded and extra mags and grenades at the ready." He pulled back the bolt to his L-85 and released it, making that satisfying noise. "So if Goldilocks decides to come prancing through the compound with an RPG and a shit attitude, I expect each and every one of you to nail the bitch to the wall."

There was a general round of cheers and applause of approval at this speech from the men as they continued to load up with even more determination. Such was the scene that Captain Wallace found when he finally arrived with his entourage. His men immediately saluted or waved to him upon sight of him and instantly returned to their work.

"Sergeant Price," he said, looking over Lieutenant Hunter, who had just come up to report. "Status?"

"Men are loading up and getting ready to move on your orders, sir."

"Good. Anything else?"

Danny saw Sergeant Price hesitate for a moment before finally adding, "Sergeant Ryan's motor pool team is at the generator. They found Private Robbins there...he's dead, sir, Murphy just took Doc over there to check on him."

The captain's face was expressionless as he took it in. Danny knew the face. Wallace took every death hard, on the occasions where even the best of preparation could not get all of them back alive. Tubbs had been a good human being, if a sloppy recruit at times; he had not even killed anyone.

"Anything else?" he asked finally, snapping himself out of it.

"No sir. Just awaiting further orders."

"Okay. Separate the men from your platoon into pairs or groups of three and four and have them search areas of the compounds. Search every building, the firing range, every nook and cranny of this place. We're going to find out who did this and apprehend them if we can. I've got Keaney's squad already on patrol, have Carter and Pratt make the teams in their platoons and then move out."

"Yes sir." Price saluted briefly and then went off to check the men.

Wallace then turned to Hunter. "Take Simmons, Morrison, and O'Malley and and get some supplies together," he whispered, in as low a voice as he could make. "Get food, water, medical supplies, ammunition, whatever else you can get get together, do so, and fast. Then load them into any trucks and Humvees that are already gassed up."

Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Are we planning on retreating tonight, sir?"

"We may need to consider that an option if there's a larger force than expected. At any rate, it'd be best if we have an escape plan at the ready."

"We have orders not to let military equipment fall into rebel hands-"

"I know my orders, Lieutenant. You let me worry about those orders and you worry about your own."

Hunter looked as though he were trying to protest, then stopped and nodded reluctantly. He whistled to Archie, Will, and Morrison and two other men and headed out.

Scott hoped it would not lead to that, as he was handed his M-4. There had not been a call to retreat from a base in years, mainly because they had not had a major battle that had called for a retreat since Vietnam. He would not want to be the first since then, but it was better to be prepared than to be caught with their pants down.

The situation made him nervous. Tubbs was already dead, and no one had heard a single shot be fired. That made it a smart enemy, and that possibility scared him in that this was no traditional rebel attack. Not that they did not send scouts in to soften resistance, but they were not this good. Whoever they were, they had some degree of professionalism, and that put him-all of them- on edge.

"Port, Charlie, you come with me," he called, inserting a clip into his rifle and pulling back the lever over the stock and releasing it. "Everyone else, move out. Let's get this done before daylight."

* * *

Ryan had his men keep point around the generator while Doc made his diagnosis.

"Definitely no bullet or puncture wounds," he said, lifting the head. "No broken bones, no marks on the neck, no marks anywhere for that matter."

"Could it have been a heart attack? Given his weight and all-" Ryan suggested.

"It could have been, but his cholesterol has decreased significantly since he was first stationed here, so if it was, I doubt it had anything to do with his weight."

"So what, then? Something scared him?" asked Stern.

"That would be my best guess," Doc rose to his feet and shook his head. "But what could have scared him so badly that it would cause a heart attack?"

That was the million dollar question for them, along with _what the hell was going ON around here?_

"Okay," Ryan got to his feet and looked around at all of them. "He saw something, the scare combined with his weight put him out. Is that a likely scenario?"

"Medically, yes. Is that what happened? I don't know, I'd have to do an autopsy."

"Do it in the morning. Right now, we need to get over to the armory and get better equipped. The rest of the company should be on the move. Doc, Stern, take Tubbs over to the medical station and have him stay put. Then you go and get yourselves armed."

The three men on watch immediately nodded and went off to the armory to properly arm themselves. Doc nodded to Stern and the two lifted (with some difficulty) Tubbs' body off to the medical station for later examination.

Ryan took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. He had never come across something this bizarre, and given the situation it did not feel like the time for new discoveries. He just wanted to find the rats that had managed to crawl their way through their perimeter and exterminate before it got too out of hand. Already it was pushing that line. What was it, a squad, a platoon? Or was there a whole battalion ready to cross the hills and march onto them, guns blazing?

And if it was, would they be ready for it in time?

* * *

Danny slowly crept forward with his MP-5 leading his direction. Behind him, Marek and Matthews were moving the same, Marek occasionally walking backwards and aiming his M-4 in case someone decided to play Peek-a-Boo from behind.

He was reminded of that one time in basic, when he was thrown out into the middle of the woods at midnight with nothing but a knife and a small flashlight with limited battery function. It was him on one end of the sixteen-mile forest, the goal was at the other end, and the only thing between them were twenty of the cadre and two M-60s with blank ammunition. It was an endurance test, six hours to get to the goal, to see how many would possibly move on to Special Forces and how many would stay with the airborne. Danny had failed out that night, been pegged in the chest by blank ammunition and marked as "dead".

While a different experience, it was the fear of the moment that brought him back to that night. That creeping feeling on the back of his neck that made him fear every shadow, every creak of someone's footsteps, the rustle of a bush or some garbage nearby. The slightest thing that felt off or unusual sent a wave of paranoia that left an unsettling feeling in his stomach, like Pop Rocks after drinking Pepsi. It was an experience that only soldiers could feel; a feeling of not knowing what was coming, but that whatever WAS coming would never be good.

Matthews was on edge. He could tell just by looking at him. Marek, on the other hand, was cool as a cucumber. He was probably the only soldier completely at peace with what was going on; he was not allowing himself to get spooked over shadows. Danny both admired him for it and loathed him for doing something he himself should know how to do. To be completely at ease in the middle of a combat zone, to let go of fear and nerves and be at ease with the darkness, took more training than the army had to offer. Marek must have really been a religious man if he could achieve it without a problem.

It was a bright night, the sky littered with stars, but star gazing was not a luxury he had right then. Tubbs had always been a gazer; he had probably been doing it when he died of...whatever had killed him, they never heard what it was. Probably a silencer, or a knife; something quiet. As much as he wanted to believe it, it just did not sound like rebel activity. As sneaky as they were, they were not this sneaky.

So who did that leave? Russia? Why not, Soviet Union's only been down for a few years, still resentment in its ranks. The blokes they had with them seemed okay, though, and if there was any hints at a stab in the back, it was well-hidden. Of course, there were a hundred other nations that probably wanted a shot at the UN's hindsight, but the questions were, who would have the stones to do it, and for what gain would wiping out one-two, if they were responsible for Echo Base too- United Kingdom base be?

Nothing was making sense, and the worst feeling in the world for Danny and his mates was not knowing. Assuming something like this had happened at Echo Base too, then he had to assume they were dealing with something different, and different was not particularly welcome in war. They had a routine, a system; different messed with that system, gave them something new to worry about.

In the middle of a war, different was the difference between completing a mission and everyone ending up in bags.

* * *

Tony stepped up onto the gunner's stand and began his inspection rituals in preparing the heavy .50 caliber mounted machine gun turret they had positioned in between the motor pool and the fuel station. He liked using the heavy guns on guard or in the convoys; it helped give him an edge, and in combat you needed every edge you could get. Besides, there was something delightfully comfortable with being behind a gun that could pierce through tank armor without that annoying green tip on 5.56mm ammunition.

With the attack on Echo Base, Tony had made it his job to maintain every mounted turret they had on the compound, whether in the towers, at the eight designated positioned among the buildings, or the ones on their vehicles. The M-2HB Browning .50 caliber machine gun could fire anywhere between 450 and 575 rounds per minute, weighed 38kg when not on a tripod, and had a length of 1,650mm, 1,143mm being just the barrel itself. A bullet fired from it could travel almost 3,000ft before gravity took over, and if you were anywhere in that 3,000ft you might as well say your prayers. The ammunition was .50 caliber, which for non-explosive ammunition was about as powerful as it could get, punching through armor without a care in the world and making a mangled mess out of infantry targets. Good odds in bad situations, and on top of it all, they were a hell of a lot of fun to shoot.

Tony stuffed the ammunition belt into the crate attached to the side of the gun that fed the belt into the gun, got behind the gun and pulled the bolt back and released it, getting the gun in business. The uncertainty he had felt earlier was gone, replaced with a desire to have some fun if there was shooting. If there was, they were going to need him, and damned if he was letting everyone down. He was used to having to provide the heavy fire, and it was definitely a rush to be the one doing the shooting while the others fell back, often while under fire. Not that he had a death wish; Tony was married with three children.

He gripped the handles of the heavy gun in anticipation. His back was to the large gas tank, so there was only one main direction any desert rats could come through, and that was guarded by 58kg of cold hard death. If anyone wanted to come trick-or-treating down this alley, they were going to get some copper-coated goody bags.

_Alright, _he thought to himself, _I'm ready. Where are you bastards at?_

* * *

Terry lead Jason and Tucker down the alley behind the enlisted's club, his G-3 trained to the front left, Jason's G-36c trained to the front right, and Tucker's Benelli M-4 shotgun keeping an eye on their rear. They moved slowly and tactfully; just because they never liked to act like soldiers did not mean they did not know how to act like soldiers.

"Quiet tonight..." Jason commented. "If the power hadn't gone out, you'd treat it just like every other night."

"Only we usually don't have a dead body on our compound every other night," Terry said, shooting him an exasperated glare.

"I think they came for us," Tucker commented to them from over his shoulder, an extremely worried look on his face. "I think we're being punished."

"Shut up, Tuck," Terry snapped at him.

"What's your problem? You had your nicotine, why are you being so grouchy?" Jason snapped back.

"Because it's nippy out, my head hurts, and this moron's going on about how this is a mob hit or something against us-"

"Well, _Christ_, man, what else could it be? Tubbs was there when we found it, wasn't he? And he's the one they knocked off! What more proof do you need, they're here and they want it back-"

"Tuck, seriously, beep beep," Jason warned him, though more gently than their third companion, who he only threw a quick glare at before returning concentration to his job.

Tucker was the only one in a panic. Jason was nervous, but he knew how to keep his cool in a bad situation. Terry, so it seemed, did not seem to care in the slightest. To him, this was just an inconvenience cutting in on his sleep. Terry was not one to overreact, or even react, to things going on around him.

Jason suddenly held up his hand and ordered the to halt. Ahead he could see shadows moving swiftly, moving in the shapes of humans but not with the speed a normal human possessed. They moved like ghosts, one minute being in one place, the next being in a totally different place.

Next to him, he heard Terry flip the safety off his weapon and aim dead ahead. The G-3 was a remarkably accurate weapon to use with just its sights, whereas Jason had to have a reflex scope on the top of his G-36c to help with his aim. He brought the short stock of his weapon to his shoulder and took a quick look through his scope.

The shadows seemed to be just that- shadows. If there was any person owning them, they were either not in sight or they were invisible. And come to think of it...how WERE there shadows? There was no light; any shadows would be non-existent in this dark hour. Yet they could clearly see them dancing around the compound up ahead. The two men threw each other a look that was clear enough to read in the dark.

Something new was going on here.

"Man..." Tucker whispered, shaking his worried head. "We should never have taken that bag-"

"_Tucker!" _Jason and Terry hissed at the same time, twisting their heads back over their shoulders. _"Shut UP!"_

The nervous private shut his mouth as they proceeded further, with even more care than they had before, chasing after shadows that could not possibly exist.

* * *

Captain Wallace had the bulk of the company spread out along the main compound, paired in twos or threes, picking spots that they could tactfully defend. Soldiers moved crates and flipped over trash cans in order to have both decent cover and a steady firing place. Someone had moved one of the Humvees into the center of the compound and another soldier had gotten into the turret seat, giving them the fifty's power. Some even dug themselves little mounds to take cover behind, for the closer to the ground they were the safer they felt.

In his mind, Scott mapped out the battle scenario. He had Sully and Finn set up their machine-guns towards the front of the pack, and looking now he could see them side by side in one of the mounds. Finn had his eyes closed, and his lips were moving wordlessly. Sully glanced over at him, frowning. From where he was, Scott could hear what they were saying.

"What are you doing?" Sully questioned.

"Saying a prayer," was the answer.

"Yeah, well, do me a favor, will you?"

Finn smirked. "What?"

"Knock it off."

Carter and Pratt had their guns towards the rear, to provide covering fire. Lieutenants Port and Winters were among the men, Winters right there in the middle with First Sergeant Evansmann and Port was off somewhere with Charlie. Sergeant Grimes had taken up a sniping position on top of the command post, wearing his favorite boone hat and giving a thumbs up to indicate he had a good field of fire.

The French were holding the left flank of the compound. Wallace knew that Lieutenant Hirko would have his team's machine gun set up and ready, and that his men, who by now would be armed with SIG-Sauers instead of shotguns, were training down the sights of their rifles at anything that came at them and did not have either a white flag or the proper code words.

The Russians were with their tanks. Bakunin had reported that the massive T-34s were fueled up and ready to go, and all that was needed was the order or the first bullet to be fired, whichever came first. Each tank had five men manning it, and Nicholai was the sixth man in the lead tank, with his Soviet-era PPSH that he somehow still kept in good working condition. There was a large doubt that they would actually be needed this night, but the leaders preferred the age-old truism of "better safe than sorry".

Weber had still not come in to report, and Wallace had a sense of urgency that he tried to keep down with water. The German team had worked together for a long time, and they were professionals. They knew how to stay alive. He was sure that wherever they were, they were doing everything they could to gain a tactical advantage.

The rest of the men were still out on patrols, at least half the company, but they should have been finishing up shortly. The sooner the better, Wallace thought. If an attack was coming, it would be coming right onto their center, and that was going to need the most defending.

Winters was thinking the same thing, though in a different form. The red-haired lieutenant, crouching down with the first sergeant near the center of the groupings. From there, by turning three-sixty, he had a full view of anyone coming at them, but the thing was no one was coming at them. Someone was sneaking around, and sneaking successfully as it turned out. They had gotten Tubbs because he had been out by himself, alone. Was that the game, then, to get them off alone and pick them off one by one? If so, they would not dare pick them all off when all two hundred of them were gathered together in one place, unless artillery was zoomed in on them and if that was the case there was no need to worry when it happened was there?

Evansmann was shaking next to him. The first sergeant was a small little man from Salisbury, a man with a pointed nose and a thin circle beard and sky blue eyes. He was like the sniveling little companion behind every villain every created, which is why he worked so well with Lieutenant Hunter, who was considered by many to be the biggest bastard the company had ever seen. He obeyed the other officers, yes, but with them he held a bit of a sneering attitude, even if it was never completely outright. Of all the noncoms, he had gone out into the towns the least amount of times, and when it came to battle, there was always that look on his face, as though someone had just broke wind in his presence. He had gotten first sergeant through loyalty and obedience, not for courage and leadership, which Winters saw as more important attributes.

Still, now was the time for teamwork, so Winters reached over and pat the man on the shoulder and offered him a comforting smile.

"It's alright, Sergeant. This'll all blow over before you know it," he told him, throwing in a wink that was probably overkill but it seemed to work anyway, as the shaking subsided somewhat.

Winters had not always believed himself to be a leader, but when he enrolled in officers school he told himself he would try to lead by example. A soldier does not go into battle simply due to harsh commands. He went in if he saw his leader leading him in, hence the name "leader". Winters was that kind of leader. When push came to shove, he was right out there with his men, right in front, and that was where he felt an accomplishment he had not known in his life. He was good at what he did. It was about time he had found something that he was good at.

Wallace finally found Port, taking cover behind one of the barracks buildings with Charlie. He was still trying to raise someone on the radio. He looked up at the approaching captain and shook his head.

They were stuck out there, but there was not that feeling of hopelessness that Scott had anticipated. Aside from Tubbs, there were no reported casualties, and the patrols should be wrapping things up and reporting back in. If trouble came, they would handle it here, and if more trouble came, well, the tanks would surely take care of them. There were vehicles being mounted up with food, water, and the works _(that is, if Hunter decided to obey that order despite his reservations)_ but really, would they need to be that drastic? The only way out was over the bridge that they would have to rig and explode as they left, and that was a lot of hassle. They would not even need to do that. Hopefully.

It all came down to right there. If they could hold them where they were, then everything would be fine.

Despite telling himself that, Scott Wallace could not shake the feeling that something was about to go very, very wrong.

* * *

Stern never knew what was coming.

After dropping off Tubbs' body, he had broken away from Doc and gone back to his laboratory to check on the Frenchman, only to find him missing. Hirko had probably come to pick him up. Good, he thought, get him off my hands for a little while.

He locked everything down and shut the door behind him, locking it on the way. All of his files were stored and saved, both here and in his van, and it was all encrypted, with two people knowing the passwords, himself, the captain, and God. If anyone was coming here to gain some information, they were going to be in for one hell of a disappointment.

He was still without a real weapon, stuck only with his sidearm as a means to defend himself, so Stern decided to head over to the armory to better equip himself. His M-4, as were most of the same rifles used by their men, was a reliable weapon with a 5.56mm cartridge, an Acog scope for easy, accurate aiming, an extendable stock for steady shooting, a handgrip so that his sweaty palms would not slip on the barrel, and a laser targeting device on the left side of the barrel for pinpoint accuracy, although it could only be seen with the night-vision goggles on. If you were going to bet against it with an M-60 or an M-21, it would be beaten out in size and how much of an ass-kicking they could deliver in as few shots as possible, but in terms of reliability, the M-4 was about as good as it got. And, although he was the tech-nerd, Stern had gone out on the shooting range, and though he was far from the best shooter on the team, he could hold his own in a shoothing match.

Unfortunately, Stern was not only blind during the daytime, but doubly so during the night, even with his glasses on. He was blind as a bat at night, and needed his night vision more than anyone because of it. Had he not run into Ryan's team on the way to the generator, he probably would have just stumbled around for hours until the sun came up. Now he was alone again, and he could already see this as being a really bad idea.

He flicked on the flashlight he had remembered to grab from his lab and held it up in his left hand, his gun-carrying right hand hanging limply at his side. God, this is tedious, he thought to himself. For such an average-sized base it seemed so big a night, and with the lights off it felt even bigger. How the hell was anyone supposed to find his way around here? Now the armory could be ten miles away instead of ten feet.

Salvation came for him, though, when he saw shadows moving up ahead, bouncing off of his light. Moments later, he heard footsteps walking out of the alley up ahead and could vaguely make out the outlines of two men walking just ahead of him. Feeling slightly relieved, he hastened to catch up to them.

As he got closer, however, an uncanny sense of unease came over him as he shone his light towards them to get a better idea of who it was. These men were standing with backs straight and heads held high, which given the current predicament was a curious scene. Normally in a combat situation, men would be walking bent down, almost in a crouch, moving as stealthily as possible and keeping aware of their surroundings. These men walked as though they did not have a care in the world.

Still, company was company, and Stern was grateful for company. He shone his light onto the backs of their heads.

"Hey, wait up," he called. "I need to get to the armory, can you guys-"

The words died in his throat as the man closest to him turned around so that the light reflected straight off his face, which was covered from his forehead to just above his sneering mouth with a gold-plated skull mask. He wore a hood and robes like those racists in America wore, only this was black instead of white. The sneer showed teeth that looked horribly rotten, and apparently had never seen a toothbrush a day in their lives. The other man wore the same attire, only he was taller by an inch and his sneer showed teeth in better condition.

One thing was clear to Stern then, though: whoever they were, they were not from his company.

"Who the-?"

What happened next happened faster than words could describe, as anyone who could care to write them would discover. Stern took a step backwards, the light falling out of his hand as the two men each pulled something out of their robes. His left foot landed the wrong way and slipped on the sand and he fell backwards just soon enough for two massive flashes of green light to shoot out of whatever they had taken and fly right above him and hit one of the barracks', setting it on fire. Time slowed down for him, or so it felt, as he watched the streams of light whiz over him, barely clipping the tip of his nose, and he fell on his back with a loud "_Oof!_"

As quick as he could, Stern lifted his chest up high enough for his arms to bring his gun up and fire five shots off at his assailants. As far as he could tell, none of them hit their marks, but they could keep their lives for the moment as far as he was concerned as he rolled onto his feet and took off like a bat out of hell, running into anything he could not see (which at this point was everything but the burning building) and getting as far away from the two as he possibly could.

And that was when all Hell broke loose.

* * *

"Shots fired! Anyone know where they came from?" Wallace shouted out to the men.

The words hardly left his mouth before the base suddenly exploded with fire. The barracks buildings exploded one by one in a timed fireworks display that were it not their base they would find beautiful and majestic but here were terrifying and horrific. Stern's laboratory had one of the more colorful explosions,caused by whatever experiments he had been performing. The cafeteria went up and sent the smells of the powdery substances that were usually turned into their meals, causing several upset and hungry stomachs.

The biggest explosion came from the ammunition dump, which had an explosion so big that it rocked the ground and made it feel like an earthquake. That explosion went on forever, on and on with the little explosions following suit. That was the one that put the fear of God into the soldiers; their ammunition, their shields from death, going up in a blaze. Wallace's main hope was that Hunter had gotten as much of it in the trucks as he could.

He turned back to give out orders when the green light came. It came seemingly from nowhere, but immediately five soldiers were hit with it and went down without a grunt or a scream. The remaining soldiers immediately opened fire, shooting in the direction that the light was coming from, but just as they had light from their left flank hit three more men, downing them instantly.

Grimes tried to pinpoint targets from his spot on top of the command post, but the thermal scope on his rifle was not picking up anything in the direction the shooting was coming from. And that was the frustrating part. Someone had to be out there, but if they were, then they were a ghost on his scope,and that was not supposed to happen.

Two flashes of light burst near his head, startling him and causing him to fall backwards. They knew where he was. Time to move. He got his bag and moved to the edge of the roof when-

Another jet of light, bigger and red in color this time, flew into the interior of the building and the whole place exploded as the electronics inside went haywire. Fire shot up through the roof and Grimes was thrown off, tumbling head over feet, and slamming back first onto the ground. He lay there for a moment, moaning, before picking himself up and running, weapon and bag in his hands.

Wallace was running back and forth, taking a knee and aiming through the reflex scope of his M-4 and popping off three to six shots at a time when he could. He looked over at Doc as he fired three-round bursts from his MP-5 while checking on one of the fallen men.

Doc was the primary medic, but he also the worst shot in the company. He could not hit a moving person, a stationary person, not even a can on top of a stick. He fired off a clip without hitting a soul and then pressed his fingers to the man's neck.

"How's he doing, Doc?" Wallace called to him, his eyes still looking down his rifle.

"He's..." Doc looked up, a flabbergasted look on his face. "He's..._dead_, Captain. He's dead."

"What?" Wallace looked over at him, then down at the body. The fallen man was not moving, and his eyes were staring down at the ground but they were not really looking at the ground, they were looking at something that was no longer there.

Impossible. How could a jet of light kill someone instantly? If it were a bullet that'd be one thing, and if the lights were tracers that would explain things just fine, but the fact was it was just _light_...light could not _kill_ anyone.

So then what was this?

"Don't get hit by the lights! Stay away from the lights!" he called out, fully aware of how ridiculous that sounded. The rest of the men seemed to understand with perfect clarity what it meant, however, for they too got as low to the ground as they could.

Sully's and Finn's machine-guns had opened up, but if there were targets to shoot at they too were ghosts because they heard no screams and saw no bodies fall. It was like shooting at their own shadows, only their shadows were killing their owners without a care. Someone was out there and someone was killing, but they just _could not see them_, they were either moving too fast or too stealthily.

Scott fired off three round bursts and hoped his patrols would get in soon.

They could not hope to hold out forever.

* * *

"The hell was that?" Danny asked as the building exploded.

Marek opened his mouth to answer when a jet of green light shot over their heads. They immediately ducked and hid behind cover as five men in cloaks appeared- out of nowhere too, it looked like- and opened fire on them.

They were right out in the open, and Danny had a quick bead on the guy closest to him. He half-stepped out of cover, enough for the guy to see him, drew a quick bead, and fired off a quick burst.

The man shouted something, and instantly a clear bubble shot out and surrounded him, like a force field. The bullets bounced off and away, and when the bubble disappeared, there was no harm to him.

_What the FUCK?_

Danny had seen some interesting things out in this desert, from a grenade landing at a person's feet and him emerging unharmed to someone blindly dodging machine-gun bullets fired from an Apache. But this new sight really caused him to freeze up for a second. Bullets did not bounce off a person, and they certainly did not bounce off of a bubble shield that had materialized out of thin air.

_What the hell WAS that?_

"Danny! Let's get out of here!" Matthews too was stunned by the fact that his heavy SAW bullets were not making a dent in their "shields". Rarely did he fire his machine-gun and not make at least a particularly large-sized scratch. The army had never told him what to do against enemies with futuristic bubble shields.

"Fall back! Fall back!" Danny yelled.

Marek jumped up and fell back, shooting as he caught up to Matthews' position. Then both of them retreated, moving and shooting while Danny covered them.

Danny emptied the rest of his clip and turned fully to run when one of them appeared out of nowhere; a big guy, blonde hair combed backwards, hard eyes fixed solely on him. He raised what looked like a long black stick at him and opened his mouth to speak.

Now, Danny was not one to just roll over and play dead when a tango was pointing something at him, and he certainly was not going to stick around to wait for whatever this guy was planning to do to him. With his sub-machine gun in one hand, he arched his other arm back and delivered a mean sucker punch to the jaw that knocked the man off his feet.

He paused only to hock one quick loogie onto his arm and then took off like a cheetah, running to catch up to his mates and dodging the green light being shot his way.

One thing was clear- these blokes were definitely not playing by the rules.

* * *

"Fall back! _Fall back_!"

"Shit shit SHIT!"

"God damn it, MOVE!"

With light blasting off the walls and lunatics shouting things after them, Tucker, Terry and Jason tore back through the way they had just come to escape the cloaked baddies that were tailing after them.

They had stumbled upon them, chasing after the shadows they had been trying to follow earlier, shortly before all Hell had broken loose. Once they realized they were not friends, and once the other side had realized they were not friends, that was when the shooting had started; well, shooting for them, and throwing glow sticks or something for the others. They got two just by surprise, though they did not stick around long enough to see if they had actually killed them; not when it was too uneven a fight.

Terry, in the lead, stopped against a wall and turned around, aiming his rifle's long barrel at the pursuers.

"Target!" he called out, and fired once, twice, three times, not hitting a damn thing and not really caring that much. The fact that he was shooting, and that he was not _dead_, certainly hyped up his survival instincts. Whatever kept him alive at this point was fair game.

Jason ran past him and also opened fire with his weapon, firing short five-round bursts and using careful aiming, though what use it was doing was something he could not judge for himself. He had tried to shoot one earlier and could swear they had deflected his bullets somehow- impossible, but that was what it had looked like. Whatever, it did not matter, just getting back to the others would put him in a better frame of mind.

He provided the fire while Terry turned and ran, barreling past him without a second glance back. Once he was by, Jason emptied the remaining clip and then turned and ran after him.

Tucker had run past them both first and was now working his shotgun. He shot a shell, pumped the empty casing out, fired another, pumped it out, repeat repeat repeat. He timed it perfectly in his head, each shot that was fired, a trick he had learned during his deployment.

Once Terry was past, Jason jumped up and ran as well while the shotgun-toting soldier covered him. As he was halfway there, Tucker fired off his last shell, so he reached for his belt and grabbed a grenade, and the sight of that if anything just made Jason run faster. Tucker with a grenade was like a six-year-old with a lighter; the two were just not meant to become acquainted. On the grenade court, they had two sand bunkers built- one for the throwers, and one for everyone else when Tucker was the thrower.

He pulled the pin and threw it and when Jason saw that he sprinted and dove under Tucker's legs to be far away from the blast radius. The explosive went off, and they heard a scream and finally they felt they could add another tally to their number of confirmed kills.

Satisfied and still jittery, Tucker turned to run and once again, like the many times before this, tripped over his two left feet and fell flat on his face. He picked himself up when a black-cloaked man suddenly descended upon him and landed on his back, a stick in one hand and a silver knife in the other.

"_Guys_!" he called out.

"Shit..." Terry turned and aimed his rifle straight at the man's chest as he lifted the hand with the knife in it and prepared to bring it down-

And that was when Ryan popped out from the alley between the buildings and brought his fist across and slammed it into the man's chest, knocking him onto his back. He then pulled out his USP .45 handgun and fired three shots into his chest, killing him.

"Go! Fall back to the command post!" he ordered, thrusting his handgun away and taking out his shotgun.

Jason helped Tucker to his feet and took off as Ryan fired off three shells and Terry fired off five rounds. When the two were clear, Ryan turned and ran, tapping Terry on the back as he went, who in turn took off behind him, towards command.

* * *

The freaks did not even see him as they turned around the corner. That just made it easy for Tony, who thumbed the trigger and emptied over twenty heavy fifty caliber rounds into their chests and blow them halfway to Narnia.

Somewhere behind the gas tank, he heard engines rumbling loudly. The Russians must have their tanks up and running now, which means that the tide was about to turn for these rat bastards. As bad as the rebels were, put them against the tank, and not even their best RPG gunners could have much hope.

More were starting to crop up, and he got busy on them. Sometimes he hit them, sometimes he did not, but the effects the .50 was having on them was apparent to both sides. It tore through them like paper, and pretty soon, they sought to avoid that section altogether.

Tony was having a blast. It had been a while since he had had to clean house- the last couple of times he had been out in the city had just been patrol for him- and while it was gory, he did like to do it if it meant the right people got to go home at the end of the day. And if the wrong people were going to come door-to-door to make it that the right people did not make it home, well then, all was fair in love and war for him.

There were loud noises coming from the north end of the compound that got his attention. He frowned. They did not sound like the Russian tanks. They did not even sound mechanical.

They sounded almost human.

* * *

A group of men were holding fast near the motor pool against some dark-cloaked men that were coming at them. Among them, Sykes was maintaining the double duty of shooting his weapon and managing the radio, a multi task he was more than used to doing.

He looked up and saw a crowd coming towards them and fired a few rounds in that direction. He was in between two small sandbag walls that were providing both cover from enemy fire and a perfect hiding place for him to fix the radio, which for the life of him he could not figure out what was wrong. It must have been their comms up link; the rebels, if they were the rebels, must have sabotaged it, maybe with an EMP or something. At any rate, they could not see him, but he could see them, and he was getting a few very good, very lucky shots in.

As he reloaded his sub-machine gun, he felt the ground start to shake and he frowned? Tanks? Russian, or had the rebels managed to steal one? He peeked out from behind his bunker and his eyes widened at what he saw.

That was not a tank.

Coming at them was a man, a man larger than they had ever seen in their lives. Twelve feet tall, skin a very pale gray, head small and round like a nut, and clothes that might have been common to wear in the fourteenth or fifteenth century, the man looked more monster than man, especially with feet that were covered in what looked like spikes. He-It-Whatever did not look particularly smart- in fact, it looked like it had the IQ of a pebble- but it had an alarming build, and the massive club that it wielded in its hand said that its actions spoke louder than its thoughts.

With a loud roar, it lifted its club and brought it down between two soldiers, knocking them both apart. The one on the left rose to his feet and fired a stray of bullets that hit its skin and bounced off as though it were made out of rubber. The thing barely noticed its skin being near-penetrated and swung the club and slammed it into the gut of the soldier, sending him flying and crashing into the wall and breaking his spinal cord. He fell to the ground again and this time did not get back up.

The other soldier tried to crawl away, but the creature reached down and grabbed him by his feet and dragged him towards it. He tried to get away, clawing at the sand and tearing two of his fingernails off in the process until he was lifted up and slammed violently back down. The monster picked him back up and repeated the movement three more times until they all heard something break, then it threw him over his shoulder.

Sykes broke out of his hiding spot, acknowledging that sticking around to see what it would do next would be detrimental to his health. The monster saw him, roared, and charged after him.

For once in his life, Sykes was too slow.

He ran ten steps for his pursuer's three. He glanced back, against his runner's judgment, and saw that it was almost on top of him, club poised to strike, and he threw himself forward and landed on his stomach shorter than the creature had anticipated, and the club went down with a loud banging noise in front of him.

Sykes scurried backwards on his elbows and knees, crawling under it in between its massive spiked legs, and then got up and ran the other way, but somehow the thing mustered up enough brain power to realize this and the club went down and sent another shockwave through the ground that sent the radioman back onto his stomach.

He rolled onto his back in time to see the beast lifting for another go, and he rolled right to dodge it, missing its landing by inches. It lifted the club again and this time he rolled right to avoid the swing, which he felt brush against his sleeve as it came down.

He crawled forward to escape but the monster gave another roar and brought the club down another time, this time effectively and forcefully smashing it on top of Sykes' right leg.

Sykes let out a scream of pain as he felt the bones in his leg shatter. He rolled onto his back and howled as he felt the broken fragments grinding against each other with just the slightest movement. He looked up as the beast lifted its club up for one more bang-

And then its chest exploded and it tumbled backwards, almost falling on its ass. It let out a howl of its own and then it sauntered off, probably to prey on more soldiers.

Price, Owen, and Murphy ran up to the fallen soldier. Owen stuffed another grenade round into the M-203 grenade launcher underneath the barrel of his M-16 as he and Price bent down on either side of Sykes.

"What's the damage?" Price asked.

"My fucking leg..." groaned Sykes, yelling again as the sergeant gently touched it to see how bad it was.

"Alright, alright, we'll carry you to the command post." He looked up at the men. "McIntyre, you and me carry. Murphy, cover."

Murphy aimed down his Acog scope and brought the stock to his shoulder, his left hand on the grip under the barrel. Price and Owen each placed one hand behind Sykes' back and another hand gently underneath his legs.

"Alright, one, two, THREE!"

Sykes let out a cry as they lifted him up, neither man struggling on account of being big men. Murphy rose with them and fired a burst from his M-4 as they took off, moving carefully but also moving as fast as they could to get out of there before the creature decided to come back for round two.

They moved past two of the burning barracks and were turning onto the main path back towards the heaviest of the fighting when they heard a loud explosion. They turned and looked up in time to see two of their tanks being thrown into the air by a large mass of green light.

"_Shit, MOVE_!" Price ordered.

They fell backwards and Sykes cried out in agony as one of the tanks landed forty feet away from them, flipped over, and landed on its side, its turret facing towards the ground at an angle in the direction of the gas tank where Tony was still firing the .50 caliber machine-gun.

Murphy stood in alarm.

"W-w-we s-should get in, suh-hee if anyone's s-s-s-till alive-"

Before he could even finish the sentence, the cannon on the tank discharged and fired off a shell with such a thunderous roar that Murphy was thrown backwards onto his ass. The shell hit the ground, bounced, and with momentum propelled towards the gas tank.

Tony glanced over just in time to see the shell come at him. His eyes widened.

"_Shit_-"

He dove to his right out of the way. The shell flipped and slammed side first against the tank and landed tip-first into the sand, right against the underside of his boot but miraculously did not explode. He slowly inched away from it and began to rise.

"_Tony_-"

"RUUUN!"

He heard Price and Murphy call out to him frantically, but his own panic had not set in. The shell was not going off; it had been a dud. He let out a sigh of relief.

"It's a dud..." he said softly, then laughed.

He stood up and waved his arms at them. "Don't worry, lads!" he called out. "It's only a dud-!"

The words died in his lips as a black-cloaked man stepped out and fired a jet of green light from the end of a long brown-colored stick.

The light did not hit Tony.

It did, however, hit the shell.

What happened next was something Price would not forget. The blast of the gas tank's explosion was so large that it not only knocked him down, it knocked him backwards several feet. Sykes fell on top of Owen and Murphy fell on top of Sykes, and the force on Sykes' leg was so that he howled once more, his lungs somehow still giving in. The gas tank explosion was the largest explosion that night, almost like the explosion a nuclear missile would send off, as it engulfed several meters of the base, including the .50 turret, the man in black-

_-and Tony-_

and did not stop. The surrounding buildings caught up in the wave of fire added further to the destruction, as wood and glass and debris were flung high into the sky and settling down around for miles. The explosions lasted five minutes, and when it was over, the base had a look like that of Germany in the final months of World War II.

Price sat up and stared at the spot where his friend has been standing moments before. All that was left now was burning, twisted wreckage.

"Sarge."

Owen was helping Sykes back up. The sergeant snapped out of the stupor. There would be plenty of time for mourning, for vengeance, later. Now they needed to make tracks before more showed up.

"Right, same plan. Let's move."

Murphy did not look up at the sergeant's words. The buck-toothed private just stood there, staring at the spot where Tony had last stood. Price helped Sykes up and patted Murphy's shoulder.

"Live to fight another day, lad," he said. "Let's move."

Murphy tore his eyes away and looked back at the sergeant with a look as haunted as any he had seen in a long time. The private did not nod, did not say anything in acknowledgment; he just lifted his rifle and moved on, covering the other three as they carried the man in the middle back to command.

* * *

Danny, Marek, and Matthews tore off past the burning buildings and jets of light that was shot their way towards command, occasionally stopping to return fire but every time they were met with the bubble shields that appeared out of nowhere. They were running low on ammo; Danny could not see them lasting much longer at this rate.

He had hoped they could just run straight back to the command center, but with all the commotion and the buildings going up and the black cloaks popping up everywhere they turned, it was more difficult than he had thought. They were going to need help, but from the shouts and screams they were hearing mixed in with all of the shooting, they were not the only ones.

They all turned, crouched, and returned fire on their assailants. Once again, they felt the futility of it, as they anticipated it and quickly brought their shields into place. Danny had never before felt like fighting a losing battle than he did right then, and it was frustrating to a man who had never given up on a thing in his life. He wanted to kill these suckers. He wanted to kill them very badly.

As he reloaded his weapon, he looked up in time to see something landing in front of the black-cloaks, thrown from their side of the battle. Another one landed right next to it.

Flash grenades.

"Cover your eyes!" he called to the other two, who immediately placed their hands over their ears and squeezed their lids shut with him.

Through his closed eyelids, Danny could still see bits of the bright flash as his eyelid interior was illuminated. He waited two seconds before he pulled his hands away from his ears to hear one of the black-cloaks cry out in surprise, and was happy to know that the grenades had worked.

And then a very gruff, very familiar voice shouted "_Light 'em up_!"

Six suppressed fully-automatic M-4s opened fire on the crowd, and upon opening his eyes, Danny saw seven of the crowd go down instantly and the rest of them were for the first time backing away, ignoring the dying and wounded men they were leaving behind.

Sergeant Keaney and his men came forward, firing long steady bursts from their silenced weapons. They came up in a straight line, feet moving at the same time, making the same movements. Then they got closer and Anwar and McCoy dropped to their knees while Redfield and Mathenson took positions against the opposite buildings to provide cover. Keaney and Coupland moved up to Danny and his mates.

"Anyone here hurt?" the sergeant demanded.

"All good here, Sarge!" Danny reported.

"All right, we're falling back. Get up and stay close."

The men nodded and they all rose to get moving when-

"_Contacts_!" Mathenson cried out, as he and Redfield opened fire. Turning around, Danny saw a larger crowd coming towards them, and more were popping up out of thin air. His face paled. Who the hell _were_ these guys?

"Alright, fall back, stay together!" Keaney ordered, as he and the other soldiers opened fire.

Danny and his team moved first while the A Squad covered them. Lights whizzed by their head as the dark-cloaks once again had their shields up to deflect their bullets. They had been caught off guard for a moment by the flash grenades, but now they were back in full force and the Brits were once again on the opposite ends of the stick.

Keaney started retreating, ordering McCoy and Anwar to take off first while the rest of the men covered them. They did so, firing off a few more shots, then turned and ran. Keaney and Coupland ran next, copying the same movements as the first two, then turned and fell back.

Mathenson took a step backwards, shooting steadily, when a red-colored spell landed almost directly on top of him. It hit the ground and tore up his right arm, leg, side, and part of his face. He was thrown in the air by the blast, turned over twice, then hit the ground and lay looking up at the sky with wide eyes.

"Medic! Man down! _Man down_!" Redfield called, shooting from his position against the opposite wall.

Keaney turned and looked back at the fallen soldier. He instantly ran back as Redfield bolted from the wall to tend to his partner.

Mathenson was choking for air, his breath coming in in wheezes. His eyes were wide and the pupils were partially dilated. He was going into shock, Keaney realized, and they had to get him out of there now before he did.

"Help me drag him!" he ordered Redfield.

They each grabbed an arm and placed it around their shoulders and hoisted him up. Keaney fired off the remainder of his clip at their ever-growing enemies and then the two men turned and hurried off, doing their best to not hurt their wounded comrade but also making sure they got away before they were next.

The rest of their men were proceeding as fast as they could and as carefully as they could, returning fire when fired upon which seemed to be coming from everywhere. Danny lifted his MP-5 to open fire and was suddenly two spells exploded on either side of him and he fell backwards. He got up and scrambled away, too late realizing that the fire was pushing him away from the rest of the squad.

"Shit," he groaned.

"Danny!" Matthews broke off after him, but Anwar grabbed him and threw him backwards.

"You want to end up dead? Come on, get your ass moving!" he ordered fiercely.

"But Danny-"

"Don't worry, lad." Marek winked at the machine-gunner. "The Father has more plans in store for him, and they don't involve him dying tonight."

Whatever plans the Lord had, they certainly brought Danny close to dying. No sooner had he broken away from the others that he ran into another crowd, a larger crowd, that were setting fire to more of the barracks buildings. In the front of the crowd-

_Oh give me a break already!_

_-_was the blonde-haired bloke that he had beat down earlier. He recognized the combed-back hair, the eyes that looked like they came from the demon world. What gave him away, though, was the nice purple bruise that was now painted on the corner of his mouth like a splotch of paint flung against a canvas.

He looked up and saw Danny standing there, staring at him. Whatever doubts the soldier had had of the guy recognizing him vanished at the hard stare that appeared when he was noticed. The man growled and waved his men forward, towards the prey, though he stayed in the front, wanting to be the first one to get him.

Danny scrambled to his feet and took off, the sooner away from this crowd of maniacs the better.

* * *

The fighting was growing more and more intense at the spot where the bulk of the company was defending. There was no longer a command post to defend; it was now just a burning, hulking wreck, the wrecked electronics sparking and adding fuel to the flames. Men were dropping around them, dying without a scratch on them, and they were running out of ammunition to shoot with.

Then the gas tank exploded, the biggest explosion of the night, one that shook the very ground. Not long after that, the single remaining Russian tank rolled backwards through their line, through a gap the men allowed for it, getting away from the explosion. Commander Bakunin rode in the open hatch, a grave expression that the men had never seen on him before.

From where he stood, Scott Wallace realized that they could not defend this base any longer. Truly there was no longer much of a base to defend. The ammunition dump was gone, their men were being slaughtered, and their tanks- the one advantage that might have decided the victors of this battle- were annihilated, the remains of them limping away from whatever was doing them damage. The men were becoming desperate, and desperation lead to more casualties, and that was not acceptable to him.

From the very beginning, Scott had felt the looming feeling that the intruders were going to bring something serious to the table. Now that he was sure that they were- and even more sure that these were the men responsible for the attack on Echo Base- he knew they could not make a good stand without a better plan. They had to fall back, leave the base, and live to fight another day.

He had made a wise choice to get the trucks prepared.

"FALL BACK! _FALL BACK_!"

His men looked up at him with stunned expressions as the words left his lips. Retreat? To where? Their base was the only safe place for miles around; without it, they would be left to the desert, and God only knew what would become of them then. Surely they could keep on fighting, just a little while longer.

"FALL BACK _NOW_!" he ordered, and the ferocity of it snapped the men out of their stupors. He was looking at the bigger picture, and the bigger picture was that if they did not leave there would not BE a bigger picture.

Sully and Finn picked up their machine-guns and ran first, running straight to the back of the pack. One by one the men began to fall back, some full-on retreating, some stopping to shoot as they ran. Some did not leave until the captain dragged them away from their positions and threw them towards the rear, where the convoy was being gathered.

Wallace ran over to where Port and Charlie were still taking cover. Charlie was shooting steadily while Port still tried to raise help on the radio. Wallace tore the receiver out of his hand and hung it up.

"Forget it, Port, we're falling back! Let's move!" he ordered.

Charlie stepped out of the spot, moving and shooting. Port stood up and took one step out when a red-colored spell slammed against the corner of the building and hit the left side of his face, including his eye and ear.

He fell on his back and howled. Blood seeped out from the cuts that had been made on his face, which ran all the way down to his chin line. His ear was torn and shredded, the pinna hanging from a thread of skin, the lobe leaking blood. His eye was no longer an eye but a hole that had quickly filled up with blood that flowed out and stained the sand red. His face was a horribly mangled mess, and it was a gruesome and painful sight to look at.

Wallace did not miss a beat. He bent down and brought his lieutenant up and wrapped the wounded man's arm around his neck. He then dragged him away, Charlie covering them as they retreated, Port screaming in agony the entire way.

All around them, their men were shouting and shooting as they ran. Some were hit and fell down; others were grazed by the red-colored spells and fell in pain but were picked up from a fellow soldier. The more ground they gave away, the more ground the enemy gained, and soon the black-cloaks were swarming over all over their once easily-defended position.

Pete Freedman's M-16 had jammed just as the captain had given the order to retreat. He tried twice to unjam it, saw that the baddies were coming, threw it down, and ran out of his position only to find that he was quickly being surrounded by a sea of black. He ran left, running as fast as his brother had trained him to run, just as three of the men spotted him and started shooting jets of light after him.

He dove through the crack underneath one of the burning barracks buildings and, with spells exploding around his legs, he dragged himself until he was completely underneath, out of sight.

Lieutenant Winters, Sergeant Evansmann, and three other men were still defending the center of the compound just as they became completely surrounded. They were down to their last mags, but they were not giving up that easily.

One of the men was hit square in the chest by a green light and he fell backwards without a sound. Another soldier got up to tend to him, only to be struck down moments later by the same thing.

The third soldier actually managed to kill two of the tangos and as he pumped his fist in the air to celebrate his victory he was struck down by three red-colored spells that tore him apart. He fell on his side, choking from the slices that were made into his neck and then stared down at the sand through his blood-soaked face and stopped moving.

"Time to move, Sergeant!" Winters shouted, standing up to run.

Evansmann was about to say something when a green light hit him in the face so hard his helmet flew off, slammed against the flag pole and landed on the ground, right next to the spot where his head hit a moment later. The look on his face suggested that he had never even known he had been hit.

Winters emptied the clip into the direction the light had come from, then turned his rifle around to use it as a bat. He clubbed one tango in the head, knocking him straight to the ground. He then slammed the butt of the rifle into the stomach of another, then hit him in the face with it so hard his mask flew off and he fell to the ground.

Winters jumped on his chest and began bashing in his face with his rifle. He hit him over and over until the man's face was not a face but a mesh of blood and bone and broken teeth and still he beat him until he felt something sharp pressing against the back of his neck and he stopped.

Turning his head slightly, he could see the tango that had the knife to the back of his neck, a sneer peering out from under that skull mask. Other tangos were circling around him, their twigs pointed at him as though it were supposed to be threatening.

While the twigs failed at that, the knife at his neck certainly gave him the idea that they had him. Grudgingly, he threw his rifle onto the ground and raised his arms in the air, allowing them to take their first and only prisoner of the night.

* * *

Lieutenant Hirko and his men had set up their own perimeter when the attack began. They had held their ground thus far at the cost of half of their men already being down for the count, though how they had died was a mystery to him, as they showed no signs of being shot. He had nine men left, ten counting himself, and their ammunition was beginning to dwindle.

Still, unless he had word saying otherwise, he was not going to back down.

"_Sergeant-Chef Callard_!" he ordered to his second-in-command. "_Dire les machine-artilleurs pour converger le feu sur le flanc gauche! Avoir tous les autres pose le feu en bas sur les bâtiments, ils se couvrent probablement là!"_

"_Oui, Sous-Lieutenant_!" Callard obeyed, and reported down the line to tell the machine gunner, Renald Sanxay, the orders.

François sat besides the lieutenant, shooting with a frightened look on his face that made the lieutenant pat him on the back. Hirko had a way of comforting his men in a battle without even trying, but even here the tech guy just gave a scared smile. This just made the situation even more dire; there was a good chance they would all die here tonight.

A shadow broke through the middle of the fight, running towards their lines. Hirko raised his sidearm, ready to strike him down, when François suddenly shouted, "_Ne pas tirer ! Le c'est Michael_!"

Stern tumbled on top of his French partner, panting and covered in soot. He had been doing nothing but running since he had been attacked and had only just now found friendly forces. Unfortunately, it was the friendly force that he could never understand.

"Corporal," Hirko nodded. "What is the status of the base?"

"The status?" Stern let out a scratchy laugh. "The status is we're FUCKED, _sir_! The place is going up in flames and shooting doesn't do a fucking thing!"

"Calm down, man! Panic is the last thing we can afford." The lieutenant was somehow managing to keep a clear, calm head despite the chaos happening around him. "We will hold this ground for as long as we have to!"

"Yeah, well, you do that, I'm getting the hell out of here-!"

Stern got up to run just as a man in a black cloak materialized right in front of him from what looked like a black cloud of smoke. Stern cursed and raised his sidearm as the enemy raised a knife and François stood to help him-

And then a single bullet pierced through the man's chest from his back, going right through him. The man looked down with a pained, puzzled look, as if he had no idea what had just happened. A second round, though with a different sound than the one before it, hit him in the back of the head, piercing through his skull and blowing the mask and half his brain off his head. Stern fell backwards, dots of blood splashing on his face, as the body crumpled.

Hirko looked up in the direction of the shooting, and his confidence in their situation felt renewed as Weber and one of his snipers, Johann Riley, came down from their perch, Weber with his semi-automatic sniper rifle, Riley with his bolt-action one. The two commanders met each other and clasped hands.

"Fate has me saving your life again, _Herr Leutnant,_" said Weber with a smirk.

"Indeed it has, though I shall not complain," Hirko replied, also smirking. "Where is the rest of your team?"

"Here." Weber held up two sets of dog tags, the smirk being replaced by a cold, hard expression. "We were ambushed in our dugouts. Wertz never saw it coming; Heindrich managed to kill three before they got him."

"Most of my men were lost in the first wave," Hirko reported in turn. "I am concentrating my fire down at the barracks, I think they may be firing from there. What is the report from the British?"

"My friend, I have not seen Captain Wallace, but I know that they are beginning to retreat. The enemy comes with a power I have never seen before, and they are destroying everything that they find. Nicholai's tanks were knocked into the sky by a beast bigger and stronger than any man I have ever met in my life, and it was through luck that his own managed to escape the same fate. Johann and I have managed by sticking to the shadows, but for every three we kill, six more appear. André, as much as it pains me to say this, we must retreat."

Hirko frowned. "And give the base to the enemy? You know as well as I do that should not happen."

"André, if I thought this was a fight we could win, I would not even suggest it. As it stands, if we stay here any longer, we were surely be killed. It is better to live to fight another day, _Herr Leutnant._"

His men stopped firing long enough to look up at him, some inwardly siding with Hirko, some (including a hopeful Stern) siding with Weber. Hirko never liked the idea of retreat; back in Vietnam, if his commander had been given the choice of retreat, he would rather sacrifice his unit and take anyone else with them. Over twenty years later, he was old enough and wise enough to know that their deaths would probably offer nothing good for their cause. Still, the thought of leaving the base in the hands of the enemy was one he had been strictly told never to do. Yet what third choice was there, other than death? He would not force his men to die, not when there was a chance for them to go home when all of this was over.

Weber was right. Staying here and fighting until they were all dead was madness. They needed to get out of there.

"Very well, Dietrich." He turned to his men. "_Retomber au point de rassemblement, les hommes, et rapidement_!"

Hastily, his men gathered their equipment and weapons and ran out of the ditch while the German snipers covered their retreats. Stern pushed to the front, all too grateful to be getting his ass to safety. François followed two paces behind, offering a smile to the German sergeant. When Callard reported that the men were all gone and was himself dismissed, Hirko turned back to Weber, for the first time looking anxious.

"I hope we are doing the right thing," he confessed.

"My friend," Weber said, and again his smirk returned, "we are doing the _only _thing."

The French lieutenant nodded and followed after his men, the two German snipers moving on either side of him like body guards.

* * *

Hunter and the men with him had loaded up most of the supplies they had gathered when the attack had begun. When the ferocity of it became apparent, the enlisted men loaded more rapidly while Hunter stared in awe at the explosions. He had never seen a rebel attack this bad. How in Lord's name was this possible?

"Sir!" Archie called. "We're all loaded up in the flatbed! What do you want us to do now?"

The lieutenant did not speak, too mesmerized by what was going on. This was what angered them over Hunter; when the going got rough, he just shut down. And in a time like this, where they had no idea what to do, to have the person who should be coming up with the plan just freeze up was just the cherry on the shit ice cream cone.

Fortunately, relief came in the forms of Staff Sergeants Carter and Pratt. The former took one look at the lieutenant and immediately took over.

"Alright, what are you all standing around for? Archie, you've got the bus. Morrison, O'Malley, you two are on rear guard. Let's _move_, people, we've got a lot of lads coming in, and a lot of people who want them dead right on their arses, MOVE!"

Pratt set up his machine-gun and fired a few steady bursts, no more than five or six rounds at a time. There was a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead, but he still kept calm and collected, as did Carter. The staff sergeants were taking over, the real leaders of the platoon.

The loud noises of a tank's engine roared in their ears. They looked up as the last remaining tank came through Pratt's checkpoint, smoke pouring out its rear. It halted right in front of Hunter and Carter; Bakunin threw the hatch door open and poked his head out.

"Mother Russia, look at what they did to my tanks!" he cried angrily, turning and shaking a fist in the direction he had come. "May God smite all of you, you bastards!"

"Does it still work?" Carter asked.

"Yes, it works fine, but barely! There was a man...no, a MONSTER, that flipped two of my tanks over with its club! When my tank fired on it, it barely made a dent! What kind of maniacs could do such a thing?"

"I don't know, sir. None of us do."

"I am taking my tank over the bridge, getting what's left of my men out of here. We shall wait for you on the other side."

"Roger that. Don't leave us here, you hear?"

"I have no intention to. If anything, I'll stay with your unit if it guarantees I get back at these bastards for this misery!"

He shouted down into the interior of the tank and the metal behemoth roared off over the bridge. Carter sighed and raised his hands to his head. If the tankers could not keep this situation under control, what the hell _could_?

The rest of the men began to trickle in, mainly the ones from the center of the fighting. Captain Wallace and Charlie came in with Lieutenant Port, who was bleeding heavily from his partly destroyed face. They placed him in the captain's Jeep, and Doc went over to help work on him. The rest of the men, which were very few compared to the numbers they had had before, set up a defensive perimeter around the vehicles. Carter placed his M-240 on the opposite side of the path from Pratt and began helping him with the covering fire.

"Lieutenant Hunter, status?" Scott ordered, snapping the lieutenant out of his stupor.

"We've loaded up one of the flatbeds, four of the Humvees, and the medical bus," replied Hunter, taking a look at the wounded Port. "Sir, what on Earth-?"

"_Later_, Lieutenant," Wallace snapped impatiently. "Right now, start loading the men up. We need to evacuate _now_."

Sully and Finn ran for the truck, the former getting into the driver's seat while the latter went for the passenger's side. Sully jammed the keys into the ignition and turned, causing the engine to sputter.

"Come on, Gertrude, don't let me down now, baby," he said to the truck.

As if listening to his pleas, the truck's engine roared to life and the headlights flipped on. Sully kept the truck in park and patted the steering wheel, smiling at Finn.

"There we go," he said. "Just got to treat them like women."

Finn rolled his eyes and shook his head, smiling despite the situation.

Sergeant Price's group came in at that moment, with him and Owen carrying Sykes and Murphy covering their rear. They ran for the flatbed truck, which was being loaded up with soldiers and ammunition, and set Sykes down as Doc ran over with a makeshift stretcher.

"He's got a bad break, Doc. Be careful," Price warned him as the medic unfolded the stretcher.

"Right, I can do a quick splint now, which will have to hold until I can properly set it." Doc said, shooting a quick stick of morphine into Sykes' good leg. "I've got this, Sergeant. You should go report to the captain."

Price nodded and took off. Doc looked up at Owen and Murphy.

"Alright, help me move him onto the stretcher."

Sykes cried out as the three men lifted him and placed him on the flat cot as gently as they could. Doc reached into his bag for the materials to make the splint.

There was a shout from behind them, and soon Staff Sergeant Ryan and his three men came barreling through their guard, the privates almost tripping over their feet every few steps. Carter and Pratt covered them in as they made it to the vehicles. Ryan reported in to the captain just as Price did.

"Most of the patrols have been wasted, sir," he said. "I found Milburn, Stacker, and Ross before they could level them, but they were the only ones I could find. Sir, we need to get out of here."

"Working on it, Sergeant." Wallace looked over Ryan's shoulder. "First, we need to blow the bridge. Milburn, fall in!"

Terry ran over to them and slammed against the Jeep and slid down, panting heavily, his panicked face covered in sweat.

"Yes sir?"

"We have to blow the bridge so that they don't follow us out. You have your explosives on you?"

"My primacord should be with the ammunition the supply party picked up before the nutjobs started blowing shit up, sir," came the reply. "I usually keep a makeshift detonator on me, but the rest are in my bunk, and frankly, sir, I wouldn't go back out there if the Queen Herself ordered me to."

"What about C-4? Would that work?" Price wondered.

"Put a block on each central beam and maybe two right in the center, yeah, it'd probably do the job."

"Alright," Wallace nodded in agreement. "Milburn, you go and get the bridge rigged. Fall back here once you're done, don't detonate until my Jeep goes over, I'll be the last one out once we move."

"Go out there?" Terry demanded, wide-eyed. "By myself? Sir, in case you haven't noticed, there is a large group of hostile crazies killing every British soldier they see. If you're seriously suggesting I go out there myself to rig the bridge, I have to politely decline."

"I'll go with him," Price piped up with, dashing any hope the private had of staying with the vehicles. "I'll make sure he does his job, sir."

"Right, good. You fall back when you're finished."

The sergeant nodded and tapped Terry's shoulder, who gave a weak cry as he rose to his feet. They ran past the Humvees, past Jason and Tucker, who watched them go off with quizzical looks. Jason suddenly snapped his fingers.

"Shit...I forgot!" He exclaimed, jumping up and running back into the fiery mess that had been their base.

"What? Jason! Where are you going?" Tucker called worriedly after him, to no answer.

The French arrived next, accompanied by the surviving German soldiers. Upon seeing Weber, Wallace let out a breath of relief. One less thing to have to worry about.

Stern ran over to the captain, panting and sucking for air, his face beet-red, his glasses dirty and half-hanging off his face, his face and clothes covered in soot. The sight of him brought a laugh to Wallace's lips, despite himself.

"Having a good night, Corporal?" he asked pleasantly, jokingly.

"Oh, a blast," Stern spat sarcastically. "If I were having any more of a good night, I'd probably be DEAD, sir."

"Alright, lad." Wallace bit back his laugh. "Show the _Sous-Lieutenant_ which Humvee belongs to his men, then report back to your truck with François."

"As long as I don't have to do any more running," the Irish scientist muttered, taking off once more.

Keaney's men were the last ones to show up. The sergeant and Redfield were carrying a half-dead Mathenson to the Humvees while Anwar, Coupland, and McCoy were covering. Matthews and Marek were with them, but not, Wallace noticed with a sinking feeling, with Danny.

"Take him to the bus," Keaney ordered, slipping Mathenson's arm over Anwar's shoulder. His second nodded and dragged the man off, the rest of the squad and Marek following while he and Matthews reported to the captain.

"Tangos are closing in on our position, sir, and fast," Keaney informed him. "We barely got out of there before they closed in on us."

"Did you see anyone else? Anyone still out there?" demanded Wallace.

"Danny's still out there, sir," Matthews reported before the sergeant could. "We got separated, he took off. I don't know where he is now."

"Sir," Keaney stated, "they're going to be coming down on us in a matter of minutes. I suggest we get out now while there's still time."

"We can't leave Danny behind!"

"If we wait for him, we're all going to die with him. One guy is not worth an entire company-"

"_Enough_." Scott's voice halted the argument. He glared sternly at Keaney, then looked at Matthews. "Terry's rigging the bridge. We'll hold out and wait as long as we can, but if he doesn't turn up, we'll have to leave, Kevin. For now, get in the Humvees with the rest of the men."

Matthews opened his mouth to say something more, then stopped, nodded, and ran for his Humvee. Keaney just stared at Wallace with a hard, cold expression which the captain shook off. He nodded finally and left to check on his men.

Wallace leaned back for a second to take a rest. He had no idea how many men he had left, but from what he had seen, including the French and the Germans, he had roughly less than half of the two hundred men that this base held, and those numbers scared the bejeezus out of him. He did not like the idea of leaving anyone behind, but he could not afford to lose what numbers he had left for just one man. They had wounded and they had scared men, and he needed to focus on getting them all out, keeping them all safe.

He thought of how peaceful everything had been a mere two hours ago, how he had been so happy talking to his wife and daughter, and then he thought of how everything had now changed. In his mind all he could think was:

_How the hell could this happen?_

* * *

Price and Terry reached the bridge without any interruptions. The sergeant covered the head of the bridge with his L-85 while Terry, his G-3 strapped over his back, was in the flat, calm river, half of his body submerged as he set his charges.

Price glanced at his watch. Two hours ago he had been sipping a pint of Archie's brew right before the lights on the base had gone out. Now he was in what was easily the most random, most alarming, and most deadly fight he had been in in quite some time. What a difference a day makes, or in this case, a night.

Was he afraid? He was edgy, sure, but the concept of fear was something he had not truly comprehended in years. Fear had just become a second nature thing, like an old piece of luggage; something that you kept with you, but did not really pay attention to. He had stopped paying attention to fear after that day in Panama when they had taken RPG snipers and mortar rounds so fierce that a platoon of forty had been reduced to seven by the end of forty-eight hours, after that day he had been shot in the leg and the medic had been near-decapitated in front of him trying to patch the wound up. He had stopped being afraid when his lieutenant still made them fight on, even with his arm gone, even with shrapnel piercing his shoulder. Once he had survived that, it had felt pretty pointless to be afraid of anything else, or at least, to care about being afraid.

So yes, he was afraid, but he was not as afraid so much as he just wanted to get his men and get out. They had a chance of getting out of here, and he was going to take it.

"Terry, hurry up!" he ordered.

"You want to do this? Be my guest," Terry retorted, carefully setting the fuse on the plastic explosive. "But this is not a job you want to rush."

Terry was trying to come off as calm, like he always did, but there was no use in hiding his fear. He had not seen combat as much as Price had; he had not seen true fear, not yet. Tonight might prove to be the night that introduced him to it.

If he got out alive, that was.

* * *

They were coming in on their location. Three men landed from a cloud of smoke right near Morrison, who was ready for them. When one straightened himself up, he was instantly met with the soldier's M-4 shoved into his gut. A quick burst of gunfire brought it down to two.

He turned his weapon on the other two and fired the rest of the clip, but they cast their bubble shields and the bullets did not even make a dent. The rifle clicked empty, and Morrison tossed it aside and took out his club, the one he had been working on since the Echo Base attack.

One fired a green light at him with a stick, and he ducked and let it fly over his head. He rushed in and swung, knocking the stick out of his hands. He twirled it around in his hands as the other man pulled out a knife, ready to lunge.

He did so, but Morrison took a hop backwards, avoiding it. He then took his own swing, which missed, but barely. The corporal did not even give the other man a chance to take his turn, but swung again and caught the man in the side of the head, knocking him to the ground. He brought his club over his head and brought it down again on his victim's head and it made a satisfying _pop_ sound as the head smashed open.

The third man raised his own stick, but was haltered as Will karate-chopped him on the back of the neck, knocking him down. He stood again and brought his arm around to punch him. Will grabbed the arm, twisted it until it cracked, then twisted it around and brought the man over his shoulder and slammed him back onto the ground. A resounding axe kick to the chest knocked the black-cloak out of commission.

He looked up at Morrison as his friend lifted the blood-stained flat part of his device. For the first time that week, he shed a grin.

"Guess we know what works," he said. "They're not so superhuman that a few basic tricks won't take care of them, aye?"

Will just nodded and smiled.

* * *

His "wet work" done, Terry was now in the center of the bridge, preparing the last of the C-4. With a final wiring of the charges, he finally finished his work. He looked up to the sergeant.

"Alright, charges set! Let's get out of here!"

Price nodded and the two took off back towards the rally point. They made it just in time, as the waves of black-cloaks were preparing their final assault on their position.

"The bridge is rigged! It's all set!" he called out.

Wallace heard him and exhaled. The exit was prepped and ready for execution. It was time to go.

"Alright, let's go! Mount up, we're Oscar Mike!" he shouted, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Carter and Pratt pulled their machine-guns off their perches and ran for their Humvees. All around, the soldiers still able to defend their positions began mounting into the vehicles. Terry got behind the wheel of his Humvee and started it up, Tucker in the passenger's seat.

"We all ready?" he asked.

"Jason ran off, he hasn't come back yet," said Tucker fearfully.

"Well, if he wants to get killed, that's his business," retorted Terry, placing the shift in gear with his foot on the break. "We're getting out of here, with or without his dumb ass."

Wallace sat in the passenger's seat of the Jeep while Charlie started it up. Port lay in the back, an already-bloodstained handkerchief covering his mutilated eye.

"Sergeant Price, tell Sully to get going!" he ordered.

Price nodded and ran over to the flatbed, where Owen and Murphy were carrying the stretcher bearing Sykes in, his leg in a makeshift split. Ryan was ushering them in, standing in the truck with a look of impatience.

"Come on, come on! We're holding everybody up!" he shouted.

"Where's Petey? Where's my brother?" Sykes struggled to get out, calling out into the night, "_Petey_!"

"Damn it, we don't have time for this, get him in!" Ryan pulled Murphy into the truck, dragging the stretcher in with him. Owen tripped from the sudden pull, fell, got back up and hurried in. Doc closed the latch and locked it.

"Why isn't he in the medical bus?" Price demanded.

"It's all full. They're not even criticals, but they just want to make sure they don't be left behind." Doc shook his head. "I need to go work on Mathenson. Good luck, Sergeant."

"Right," Price leaned backwards and shouted towards the front. "Sully, let's go! We're all set!"

"Roger-doger!" Sully threw the truck into gear. "Hang on, mates, it's going to be a bumpy ride!"

"_Fuck you, Sully_!"

"Oops. Sorry, Sykes, I'll try to make it less bumpy."

His foot hit the gas and the truck took off, the first in the convoy that would hopefully take them to safety. These vehicles- the truck, four Humvees, a medical bus, a communications truck, a tank, and a Jeep- would be their mobile homes for however long they would be out in the desert, traveling out for wherever friendly forces were. By the end of this whole ordeal, these vehicles would probably be the only things that will have saved their lives.

"Here we go!" Archie called from the front of the medical bus. "Next stop, the lovely sand dunes of Tatooine!"

He laughed despite the situation and followed after the truck, making sure the bus did not hit any of the explosives on the way out. One wrong drive and they would definitely be screwed.

Price stepped into the passenger's seat of the lead Humvee and looked at the driver.

"Step on it, let's get out of here," he ordered.

Just as they were about to go, the soldiers in Terry and Tucker's Humvee heard a tapping on the back of their vehicle and a voice saying, "Open up, you twats, let me in!"

Two of the soldiers threw open the hatch and Jason stumbled into the back, weapon strapped to his back, crawling his way to the front with a large brown-colored bag with two ivory handles clutched tightly in his arms. He grinned at the drivers.

"Heya, chums," he said.

"Where the hell were you-?" Terry's eyes fell on the bag and his expression changed. "You went back for the-?"

"Shut up and drive before they kill us and neither of us get this," Jason shouted, sitting up and keeping the bag in his lap. Tucker gave him a shocked look.

"Jesus Christ..." Terry threw the shift forward and pressed hard onto the gas. "Hang on!"

He floored it right after the other Humvees, bumping roughly against the rear bumper of the one in front of them. Neither would complain, and it would be something they could complain about later, but for the moment they just focused on getting over the bridge and getting out of there.

Stern's truck was the last one before the captain's Jeep to leave, but not without some difficulties. The shift was stuck, and no matter how hard he pressed, he could not get it to move.

"Come _on_, you piece...of..._shit_, MOVE!" Stern screamed, slamming his fist against the stick.

"_Peut-être vous devez_-" François started to say.

"François, for the love of Christ, just shut UP-!"

He lifted his foot and kicked it against the shift, un-sticking it and allowing them to move.

"Alright, we're clear!" he said, and he floored the gas and got them out of there.

Wallace waited until the last vehicle was over the bridge, until they were the last ones left. There was nothing else they could do here; the rest was up to God. He turned to Charlie and nodded.

"Alright lad, get us out of here."

"Yes, sir," Charlie nodded, and started the car.

They pulled out of their parking spot and turned left and headed for the bridge before Port weakly shouted, "Stop! It's Danny!"

Wallace twisted his upper body to look. Sure enough, there was Danny, running to beat the Devil with his weapon in his hands, a tired yet determined expression on his face. The captain let out a surprised gasp of air, then found himself smiling widely. Danny had never given up on anything in his life; here he was, proving that fact so that there would never be another question about it.

Explosions were sprouting up all around them as the last of their base went under siege. Charlie did his best to keep it straight, but that along with keeping the speed going fast was a chore even for him. Wallace turned to him.

"Slow her down, let him catch up!" he ordered.

"Sir, if I slow down, those blokes will get us!"

"_Just do it, Charlie_!"

The spectacle-wearing clerk hesitated, but ultimately slowed the Jeep down, not by much, but enough for their running man to catch up. Wallace leaned over Port's half-conscious form.

"Danny! Hurry up, lad, let's go!"

Danny ran as hard as he could despite a twisted ankle and a cramp in his chest. By all accounts his body was close to the breaking point and he felt like dropping dead right then and there. Let the black-cloaks do what they wanted to him. The second the thought entered his head he kicked it right out again. They were not leaving him to die in this hellhole. Shit all over that concept, he was getting out of here and God as his witness he was going to kill anyone who tried to stop that.

And someone did try to stop that, a black-cloak who tried to take a pot shot with the stick at him. That plan was foiled by Wallace shooting him in the back with his trusty .45 caliber sidearm. Port had his M-4 raised, though how well he could shoot with it in his state was a feat to be seen. Still, if it meant his soldier would make it, he would try his best.

He was almost there, almost within arms reach, and Wallace leaned over further, hand stretched out as far as he could make it. An explosion sent debris all over them and caused Charlie to swerve the Jeep and almost make the captain fall out of his seat, but he held on. Danny inched closer, and now he in turn raised his arm to catch it. The weight of the MP-5 being held in his one hand slowed him down, but he still worked for it, fought for it with all of his might. They were in finger's grasp-

The car hit a bump, lurching Wallace forward and allowing him to firmly grasp Danny's arm. With a loud cry, the captain pulled, the private jumped, and they both crashed into the vehicle, the new occupant landing right on top of Port, who groaned in pain. Danny hardly noticed.

"GO GO GO GO GO!" he screamed.

"FUCKING FLOOR IT!" Wallace shouted.

"Aye!" Charlie slammed his foot on the gas and the Jeep roared over the bridge, avoiding one final explosion that took out the only building still standing. Wallace grabbed the radio receiver.

"We're over! Blow the fucker!"

Terry heard the cry over the radio and grabbed the detonator.

"Firework time!" he shouted, and thumbed the trigger.

Terry had done his job well; perhaps a little too well. From behind them, the four Jeep occupants felt the force of the explosion as the bridge exploded with more firepower than was probably called for. The beams, all four of them, splintered outward from each explosion that took them down. The center of the bridge blew upwards, leaving a crater-sized hole in what remained of the bridge. What remained soon went down as well, without the beams to support it, and any traces of the bridge sank right into the river, of no more use to anyone.

The Jeep hit a bump, flew a few feet, and hit the ground with a crunch but the vehicle held together just fine as it took off after the rest of the convoy, which along with the Russian tank that had indeed been waiting for them was taking off, for where they were not certain, but the general consensus of every single surviving British, Irish, Scottish, French, Russian, and German soldier was that anywhere was better than the hell they had just left behind.

* * *

The man with the blonde hair stood at the remains of their bridge, looking off into the direction of where the surviving Mudbloods had gone. He could not see them anymore; they were long gone.

They had been sloppy this time. They had not had the perfect opening attack that he had hoped for, and as a result, the Muggles had managed to get prepared in time to counter them, however futile it had been. Last time, they had taken out the filth with no problems whatsoever. Not this time.

How many swine had managed to escape? He was not sure, but it was definitely less than half of them, judging from the piles of bodies they had left behind. So many bodies, some of them charred and burned, laying like crumpled dolls thrown all over the ground. Their "tags" had been collected by his men, each one taking only the ones they themselves had killed. He himself had seven; not as high a count as he had hoped, but not bad nonetheless.

But his own dead...he threw a glance over to where they were collecting the bodies of his fellow Death Eaters. Not many of them, but yet too many of them. They had lost thirty-seven this time; last time they had lost zero.

This crowd had gotten too lucky.

And then there was that one that had escaped, the one that had punched him. He brought his hand to his mouth and winced as the touch brought a stinging pain to his face. He had actually drawn blood from his lip, though that had healed up in a matter of moments. It was not so much the bruise, however, as it was his own pride. One of those little bastards had actually touched _him_, of all the people, _him_. He had never allowed anyone to cause pain to him, and those who had...well, they were no longer breathing the same air as him.

The same fate to follow for the little pig.

Their army was a massive one; Death Eaters from all the corners of the globe, the biggest gathering ever. The Dark Lord had assigned him the task of removing the filth from this continent; he would do just that.

He looked up at the peaceful night sky, studying it quite intently. Then he raised his wand towards the sky.

"_MORSEMORDE_!"

There was a flash of light, and the Dark Mark appeared in the sky, the sinister looking skull with its mouth opened for a long snake to uncoil out and wiggle like a living tongue. Such a lovely piece of work to look at.

Blood had been spilt this night. The mark was placed there to state that.

And if- _when_ - they found the surviving pack rats, they would state it then as well.

* * *

Holy fuuuuuuuckbaaaaalls, this is fucking LONG.

Like, I've written some long motherfuckers in my time, but THIS..._DAMN_!

Well, anyway, here are the translations to the French language:

François 1: _I knew I should have brought a translation book..._

Hirko 1: _Sergeant Callard! Have the machine-gunners lay suppressing fire on the left flank! Have the rest of the men lay down fire on the barracks', they're probably taking cover there!_

Callard: _Yes, Lieutenant_ _(okay, this one's pretty obvious)_

François 2: _Do not shoot! It is Michael!_

Hirko 2: _Fall back to the rally point, men, and quickly!_

François 3: _Maybe you should-_

These are the rough translations, but they're pretty accurate.

Well, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, if not for its length then for its content. I tried to build up the suspense for the first half and then let it all just explode for the second. I just hope you found it entertaining.

So, review, favorite, subscribe, and share the LOVE!

..._cough cough._

Anyhoo, see ya next time.


	3. Perspectives

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** So the story has gotten a fair amount of views by now, which is nice. However, there are still no reviews or alerts, and that has me slightly disappointed. I know that it will probably change after a couple more chapters have been posted, but it still concerns me a little bit.

I know this story is different. It's not going to deal with magic directly. The Death Eaters are the overshadowing presence of the story, and they and other magical creatures that come in and out serve to move the plot forward.

The story is really about these soldiers, and how they deal with it all. It's a character story, and one I've wanted to work on for some time.

I'm going to work on this story until the end, but I ask more that people give it a chance for it and the characters to evolve. And if there's something I should improve (and don't say add more magic, because I've already got a plan for all of that), then please let me know. If you have a criticism, let me know. If you have something you really like and would like to see more of, let me know. I love feedback, good or bad, as long as it's not flat-out scorn.

So give me some, please? I know it sounds like I'm whining but I really like to hear what readers have to say, and it really helps me out.

Thank you.

Enjoy.

* * *

Perspectives

His footsteps echoed off the walls with each step, which felt absurd to him because he was wearing slippers. He wrapped his midnight-blue robe over him and stuffed his hands in its pockets and pulled out his cigar. He then went through the process of putting it in his mouth, lightening it, then taking a puff or two while playing with the silver-plated lighter in his hands.

It was a ritual, although usually more when he was awake.

The fifty-two-year-old man from London had not really known what to expect when he was woken up by his runner at two in the morning. Well, that was a lie; the exact thing had happened that night when Echo Base was attacked, so he had some idea of what it was. If it was, something was going to have to be done. One base was a disaster; two bases was apocalyptic.

The two guards stepped aside to allow him into the command post, the dark circular room that never had the lights on and never had any windows leading inside. Instead was a large circular table that had four seats total, three of which were already full. He took his position at the head of the table as the desk lights came on and his aides saluted him.

"Sorry to disturb you, Colonel," his second-in-command spoke up first. "But we've encountered a serious situation.

"It's alright, Hastings," Harold Shepard replied with a weary smile. "Just talk to me."

The colonel had been a military bird for the last thirty-four years, with no signs of retiring anytime soon. At fifty-two, five foot nine and one hundred and fifty-six pounds, he was in terrific shape for someone who had reached the halfway point in his life, able to keep up with the men during their calisthenics and even, in some cases, setting the tone for them. From an onlookers point of view, he was like a grandfather, with his sky blue eyes and bushy-white mustache. However, he had the mind and eyes of a hawk, and no little detail ever slipped by him unnoticed. He was serious when the situation called for it and kind when the situation was fine. Now was one of the times where he was all-business.

Lieutenant Colonel Dwight Hastings nodded at his words. At forty-six from Cardiff, he was an inch shorter and ten pounds heavier than his commanding officer. A fifteen-year veteran, he had seen his own share of war before being assigned to this post, away from the action. With sharp green eyes, a nose broken long ago from a bad bar fight, and a stiff jaw, he was everything one would expect from a former grunt, and his knowledge came in handy during times like this.

"At twenty-two fifty-one hours last night, all communications links with Charlie Base were lost," he explained. "As of now, there is still no word on the status of the men. However, given the situation with Echo Base, we feel it may be connected."

It was as he had feared; another attack. But the attack on Echo had been so different compared to the numerous other encounters with the rebel faction; no bullet holes in the corpses, no knife wounds, not even signs of strangulation. And the blown-out barracks buildings did not look like they had been made from bombs. It was baffling Intelligence and it was baffling the staff; what could do something like that?

"Has aerial surveillance picked up anything?" Shepard asked.

Major David Petitt, the thirty-eight-year-old Head of Intelligence, cleared his throat. From Oxford, he had green eyes and blonde hair, and a nose that was hooked in what he called "a splitting image of his grandfather". Whenever something was going on, he was always the guy to turn to; nothing ever passed under the radar without him knowing it. He made sure every surveillance plane, every radar specialist, every agent in the field, all of it, came to him with whatever information they had. On this one case, however, he was stumped.

"Surveillance wasn't flying over at that time," he told the others, shaking his head. "Communications just died without so much as a hint of interference. I'm sending one of my teams down there at first light to survey and check on things."

"What do you think, Colonel?" Hastings asked.

Shepard glanced over at the final member of their crew, Captain Franklin McMillan, the regimental chaplain. The youngest of the four at twenty-nine, McMillan was from Belfast, Ireland, with dark hair and dark eyes and a boyish face to accompany them. Mid-height and a little on the stocky side, he joined in and was assigned the role of regimental chaplain, a job that usually came with a considerable amount of scorn. Despite being the preacher of the regiment, he was still quite intelligent, and often offered a different perspective on things. For that reason, he was allowed to weigh in on meetings and be a part of briefings, plannings, and discussions.

From the look the chaplain was giving him, he could tell what he was thinking- that things were taking a new turn, and they needed to be prepared.

"Send in a platoon from Alpha Company with your team, Major," he ordered, turning back to Petitt. "And make sure they're prepared. Whatever they need, they've got it."

"A tad extreme, isn't it?" Hastings asked with a raised brow.

"Lad, it's time to face facts. Something out there is wiping out our bases and doing a right good job at doing it. And we need to know how they're doing it. I don't care what it takes, I want to know what's going on out there."

"Alright, Colonel." Petitt stood up. "I'm on it. We should have answers by morning."

He walked out of the room as Shepard focused on his cigar and contemplated the situation. Never had they lost a unit to such a complete blackout before, let alone two units. It was time to start being scared.

"I'm wondering if we shouldn't put the whole Middle Eastern operation on full alert," he voiced softly, taking a puff of his cigar.

"Now _that_ is certainly being extreme," Hastings asked. Shepard looked up at the ceiling and blew out smoke.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures..."

* * *

Khalid Shiek Ali could see the explosions from his roof in Balad.

He did not know what to think of them, mainly because it was unlike any bombardment he had seen in his forty-two years of life. The colors, the noises he was hearing...even from miles away he could see it was the most bizarre set of either fireworks or bombardings that he had ever viewed.

And coming from a lifetime of war, that was saying something indeed.

He stroked his black scraggly beard and smoked his cigar as he watched the display. His mind wandered to which side was being hit, and who the forces even were. One side had to be the Americans, or one of their allies...but who was the other side? Certainly not his people; their side may have bought many weapons that did not meet their stereotype of "desert folk", but they certainly had nothing like this show going on now.

He would know. He was a regular in the town's militia, and one of its leaders.

He had fought several times, and had the scars in his shoulder and side to prove it. The first bullet had gone through his right shoulder, and that was a pain that had not entirely gone away, even now, six months later. The second bullet had been the reason why he only had one kidney now. Every now and again, mainly with a sharp movement, it would bring a stinging pain to his senses, but for the most part it was as though nothing had happened.

He was as successful a businessman as one could get out here- two wives, eleven children, a house that was not four sticks and a sheet of metal as a roof but an actual house, with two floors, a solid roof and furniture that did not feel as though it had been sitting in a dump for four months. It was a lifestyle many were envious of, but none tried to come in and do anything about it, provided he kept his mouth shut and did not try to lead any revolts, to which he had abided to up until now.

He had studied business and politics at Yale in the States, and had several friends there that he still kept in contact with via mail. Every now and again he would get a letter asking about the state of affairs in his country, what was going on, was the conflict involving him personally. He answered without giving too many details, because frankly, it was his people's problem, was it not? Was it so much of a global problem that everyone needed to stick their noses in it?

When the Americans and their friends had come to his country, he had been disappointed. Mainly because he knew they meant well, but their plan lacked proper execution. You could not just go into a country and tell its people how to live their lives. They had their government and way of life set up like this for a reason, and that was because it had been set in place hundreds and hundreds of years ago. A civil war was just one way of balancing it all out, giving each clan their own time on the throne before the next one, as far as he could figure.

Did the United Nations really think they could change that doctrine so simply? That by sending in their soldiers to aid in the "winning" side- the winning side depending on who in the city you talked to- they would be able to inflict some resolution upon centuries of conflict? The best thing was to let them resolve it the way they had always resolved it; through talks and, more likely, through violence. Thought many wished for peace, most understood that the way to stay alive was to just let things play out, and pray that wherever that goes does not go near you.

The UN did not understand that. Now, as he watched the display of explosions and bright lights, somebody was paying for that. Yet, as he watched from his rooftops at the fireworks show, something still did not seem right about it. Whoever was fighting out there, it was not their men...so who was it? Had someone else joined the fight without them knowing it?

Rumors had flooded around of a British base being ambushed by ghosts; no bullets fired, just two hundred bodies looking as though something had frightened them to death. But a friend a few villages over had seen the show from his house, just like Khalid was doing now, and had reported that it was something like what was happening now. Maybe that was it; maybe someone was out there, being attacked by these "ghosts".

The problem with ghosts, though, was that once they took care of one force, they would turn their attention to the other.

Khalid wondered when that time was going to come, and if they would be ready for it when they did.

* * *

The pain that was shock waving through his body was unlike anything ever done to him. And they were not even touching him.

Winters fell backwards onto the sand and jerked and twitched as what felt like a thousand volts of electricity shot through his body like they were dancing the tarantella at full speed. The man who was supposed to be torturing him was only holding out a stick and pointing it at him; he was not even poking him with it. And yet here the lieutenant was, writhing in absolute agony while this man sneered at his movements as though he were watching a funny puppet show.

"_Enough_."

The man did a flicking movement with the stick and the pain was suddenly gone and Winters just lay there, gasping for air and trying to get himself back on his knees. His face was sporting a black eye from where they punched him, and a slice on his left cheek from where that one bloke had left his mark with his knife. He was missing a tooth, he was sure of it, and both nostrils were bleeding, all signs of a guy who had said a few nasty things and got a few nasty rewards for them.

When they learned that some of the men had escaped- and how many, he could not be sure of, but if _someone_ was still alive it was good news for him- they had turned to him for answers. At first they asked him for the location, screamed at him for it. When that had not worked, they tried to beat it out of him. And when _that_ had not worked, they had resulted to this weird electrocution method. He had kept silent up until now; he did not know how much more he could take.

The one torturing him was a man that their leader had referred to as "Begley". With his mask off and his hood down he was a skinny man with greasy combed-back black hair and a pointed face that made him look like a rat. His teeth were his worst feature, disgusting and vile things that they were, probably never saw a toothbrush in their lives. His nose was pointed and hairs were sticking out of the nostrils in a rather disgusting fashion. He was a slimy looking git, both inside and out, and seemed to have some sort of homicidal tendency. But then again, so did the rest of them.

"Alright, vermin," he said in his snivel of a voice, as though he had permanent congestion. "Are you ready to tell us where they went?"

He reached forward, grabbed the lieutenant by his vest and lifted him back onto his knees so that he could face them. Winters spit out some blood and glared up at the leader.

"A guy...helped them..." he panted.

"What guy?" Begley demanded, but Winters would not even look at him. The man behind him, the big man, was the one calling the shots. If he wanted to know, he could hear it for himself.

"Big guy...red coat...white beard..." He managed a missing-tooth grin. "Lads call him Jolly Ole' Nick."

He laughed, a laughter made harsh by his torturing. It was such a stupid thing to say, yet it was hilarious to him. If these people thought they could weed the information out of him, then they could take that idea and shove it right up their-

Begley muttered that word again, the word that sounded like garbled English to his ears, and before he knew it he was back on the ground, trying to withstand what felt like an entire electric transformer being stuck into his chest at full power. He gritted his teeth and did his best from crying out; the more he did that, the worse it was for him and the better it was for them. But after a time, it became too much, and so that was exactly what he did.

"I said _enough_."

Begley reluctantly made it stop and Winters rolled on the ground, panting and moaning in pain. He turned to the leader.

"The rest of his filth will be here soon to clean up," he told him. "We've got bodies missing, our own dead are littered all over, and this trash isn't talking. What are they going to say when they see this?"

The man's eyes lingered on the scene for a moment. This was going to leave a lot less to explain. The wands had already been collected, but the bodies would give the faceless enemy a face, and that was something he could not afford to do. Not yet.

"Have half of the men take the bodies and Apparate them somewhere safe to bury," he said in his low, deep croak of a voice."The rest of us will Apparate back to camp immediately. They will meet up with us there, and we will plan our next move."

"And him?" Begley nudged his head in Winters' direction. The man peered onto him, contemplating. They could just leave him here with the rest of the bodies- what was one more Mudblood among the rest of them? But that did not seem fitting. And, when they did find the others, would it not be best for him to see them one final time? A parting gift, so to speak? Yes, it seemed much more appropriate.

"Bring him," he ordered. "There may be use for him yet."

"From a Mudblood? I doubt it."

He smirked and walked away to tell the rest of his lieutenants. Begley walked back over and again dragged Winters on to his knees, but this time taking it a step further and bringing him to his feet and dusting him off.

"It's your lucky day, chum. We've decided not to kill you." He grinned a disgustingly wicked grin. "_Yet_."

"What-?"

"Let's move. Now."

And then one second he was standing on the remains of his base, surrounded by the bodies of his dead men and the living bodies of his enemies...and the next he was standing in the middle of the camp, surrounded by the enemy and not a single friendly face in sight.

Just like that. No planes, no trucks, not even a motorcycle. They were there one second, gone the next.

Like magic.

And it was at that moment then, after the battle and the torture and everything else, that Winters finally acknowledged the fact that this time, they were all in way over their heads.

* * *

"The reports are coming in, sir, and there's interesting news," Petitt reported the second he stepped foot back into the room, five and a half hours after leaving to dispatch his team.

"Let's hear it," Shepard ordered. Hastings and McMillan sat up in their seats, back at attention to hear the news.

The Intelligence officer sat back in his seat and passed the file around the room. Shepard got it first and opened it onto the pictures of the base. He closed his eyes for a brief moment. The burning barracks, the trampled vehicles and weapons...and the piles of bodies sprawled all across the compound. Just like Echo.

"So it's the same people, then," he said, passing the folder along.

"It looks that way, Colonel." Petitt nodded. "However, there are two key irregularities here that weren't present at Echo Base."

"Such as?"

"Firstly, the barracks at Charlie Base were all empty; no one was inside any of them. At Echo, we found two buildings filled with soldiers who were killed before they could get out of their bunks. This tells me that the soldiers knew what was happening this time around, and judging from the spent bullet casings around the bodies, they put up a hell of a fight against it."

"Fat lot of good it did them," muttered Hastings, glaring over the papers. "I don't see any enemy bodies lying around."

"But it's good," McMillan piped up. "It means that they were ready for it, even if it didn't help them."

"What's the second irregularity?" Shepard asked the major.

"The second one, sir," and here Petitt managed a sort of ironic grin, "is that we gathered up the bodies and realized that there were some missing. A good portion of them missing, actually."

This stopped the other officers right in their seats. No one moved a muscle as they took that in. In the previous attack every body had been there to confirm every soldier's death. It had been such a clean attack; no enemy corpses, and every ally corpse. But now-

"How many are missing?" the colonel asked.

"At least ninety, though I still don't have exact numbers. Intel also reports that several vehicles were missing from the compound too, including one of the tanks and the lab truck."

"Wallace?"

"He's one of the missing, sir."

"Then they could still be alive," McMillan said with a hint of hope in his voice.

"Or they could be being held for ransom," Hastings added pessimistically. "They could have commandeered the vehicles to transport them."

"What kind of force could take ninety men hostage? That would have to be the size of an entire regiment to do that, maybe two."

"What kind of force could wipe out two bases and leave over three hundred men dead with no apparent casualties of their own? With no bullet wounds or any apparent injuries on the corpses? Not the same kind of force we're used to dealing with."

"Colonel, what do you think?" Petitt interrupted the two of them, eying their superior earnestly.

Shepard puffed on his cigar and leaned back in his chair. The facts of Echo Base and the facts of Charlie Base coincided almost perfectly. Almost. There was a force out there that did not like them much, and would just as quickly take them all out then negotiate. This time, however, they had gotten sloppy. Now there were a possible ninety soldiers still alive, and if they were smart- and if Wallace was with them, then they certainly were- they would make their way back to friendly bases. The question, though, was would they get back in time, before this force decided to take out someone else?

This was something he had never seen before. And it was certainly not looking like it was going to end soon.

"We have to assume they made it," he said. "We have to assume they survived and are making their way back to friendly territory. I want to put our resources into finding them before it's too late. And in the meantime, I want the rest of our forces put on full alert. If this rogue force strikes again, I want to know where and when. We need information, gentlemen. We need a prisoner if we can get it. There's too much we don't know. Let's take the question marks off those sentences and try to come up with answers."

"I'm on it, sir." Petitt stood and hurried out again, to return to his work.

"Colonel, with respect," Hastings interrupted as the major closed the door behind him. "The chances of ninety men surviving something that three hundred could not is very slim-"

"Unless we have dog tags in our hands, Lieutenant Colonel, I am going to assume they are alive. We are going to find them. We are going to get them the hell out of there. And we are going to stop whatever is out there. We have survived far worse than one rebel faction. We will survive this too."

McMillan nodded from his seat, a sure smile on his face. Shepard was not one for giving up on his men; not when they were still alive and having a fighting chance. Wherever these men were, they were going to be searched for. Until they were brought back, dead or alive, they were not going to assume anything other than they were still out there.

His only hope was that they found them before it was too late.

* * *

It was eleven thirty in the evening when the doorbell rang to their house, but Lisa Wallace was already wide awake.

She had been sitting in her bed, wearing her peach-colored bathrobe and holding a picture of her and her husband in her hands, looking at it with a soft smile on her lips. It was taken a week before their wedding, when they were on vacation in Ireland. That night where he had plucked a tiny flower from a bush and put it in her hair and told her she looked angelic. He had a way with words every now and then, something that had always attracted her to him.

She had put Victoria to bed hours ago, after a whole day of her tears. For some reason, today the infant could not stop crying. Not even a walk to her favorite park could get her to calm down. In the back of her mind, she could not help but wonder if this was Victoria's way of telling her that something was wrong, that she knew something her mother either did not know or did not want to think about.

She shook her head clear. She could not think those thoughts; otherwise, she would surely fall apart.

Growing up in Dundee, Lisa could not say anything particularly tragic about her life. Her parents were strictly religious, while she had been a bit of a rebel in her teenage years. She had had a great group of friends, she had done very well in school, she had loved music and writing the occasional piece of poetry. She went to church, and though she could not call herself particularly Catholic, she did love to hang out with her friends from the youth group.

As happy as her life was, for the majority she could not help but feel there was something missing, something that she had not found. She was asked to dances, and had a few dates here and there, but the actual experience of a relationship was something that she did not know for high school, and upon entering college. She had liked guys, and guys had liked her, but nothing had really come of them. It had never bothered her, particularly; it just felt lonely at times.

One night,while she had been in her friend's dorm room, talking with her friends and discussing upcoming plans, they were greeted by two newcomers. One was a boy she had seen around campus but had never talked to. The other was a complete stranger; dark hair, dark eyes, and a boyish look to his face that yet had something deeper behind it, something she could not place her finger on.

All it took was one look between them for something to click. He smiled, and it was the cutest smile she had ever seen, topped off with the dimples in his cheeks. The smile immediately won her over.

Over the course of the night, it had gone from him sitting across the bed from her to her sitting right next to her, close enough for her to put her head on his shoulder. She dropped the occasional hints that he thankfully picked up on, ever so subtly. But in the end, nothing serious came out of the night, and he walked out with his friend at the end and, she presumed, out of her life.

But the next day, there he was, catching up to her as she and her friends headed to the park. They spent the majority of the afternoon with her, climbing trees and playing tag, and at one point she had even given him a hug, out of the blue, which he had returned gratefully, if somewhat surprised by it.

It made up for the night before. From then on in, there was no denying there was something there.

A week later, he had taken her to the movies, with his friend and one of hers. It was like a real first date, the one commercialized in television shows- he paid for her ticket, held her hand, and, to end the evening, kissed her goodnight. Well, more than one kiss, though that had been more her doing, though he had not complained. That was the start of it all; the start of what would become their fifteen years of being together, resulting in their marriage and their beautiful daughter.

When he had called the night before, she had been overjoyed to see his face. It had been several months since the last time they had been allowed to video chat, so she made sure to look her best for him, and for Victoria to look absolutely adorable (though really, what more help did she need that she did not already have doing that?). The thing that had delighted her was that his smile was still the same, even after fifteen years. Same prominent front teeth, same goofiness, and the same dimples that occupied his cheeks. War had not changed him so much that it had taken away that side of him, and that made her the happiness.

But then the video feed was interrupted on his end, and she had not heard from him since. That was almost twenty-four hours ago, and she was officially starting to worry. The previous times he had had to cut the conversation short, he at least told her he had to go, or got some notice. This time, it had just cut out, with no e-mail or anything explaining it.

She knew she should probably not worry, but she could not help it. When your husband was in a war zone, worrying was all you could do. And this was the worst case of silence that she had had to endure when he had to disconnect from her. But she told herself that she was probably worrying for nothing, like all the other times.

Until the doorbell rang at eleven thirty in the evening.

That was when something in her mind told her it was okay to worry, and she could also turn up the worry, if that was okay with her.

She slowly crept down the stairs towards the door as the bell rang again. Her hands began to tremble as she reached for the door handle, and she stopped to close her eyes and take a deep breath. Whatever happened, she would have to take it in bits and pieces, if she was to salvage any of her emotions. She placed her hand on the handle and opened it-

To find two officers standing before her in their dress uniforms. One of them held the rank of captain, which was the same rank Scott had. The other officer was only a lieutenant, but he also had a cross pinned to his collar; the insignia of an army chaplain.

"Mrs. Wallace?" the captain asked.

"Yes..." She had meant for it to sound stronger than it had come out. Her worst fears were coming true. These men had come to tell her that Scott was dead. After tonight, her life, and the life of her daughter's, was going to be shattered.

"On behalf of the Secretary of State for Defence, and her Majesty's Army, it is my humble regret to inform you that your husband, Captain Scott Thomas Wallace-"

_(Oh God, here it comes)_

"-is missing in action as of last night, ten fifty-one in the evening. He was reported missing when his body was not recovered from his base, which underwent heavy bombardment during the night-"

But everything after that was just a blur to her. Her fears lingered onwards, gnawing at her heartstrings, but in a different way than before this news. Missing. Scott was missing. That did not necessarily mean he was dead, it just did not mean that they did not KNOW if he was dead.

She sat herself down on the couch as the officers invited themselves in. The chaplain took her hand and comforted her as the tears finally slid down her face while the captain read out the details and following procedures, none of which made any sense to her.

From upstairs, Victoria had started crying again.

* * *

A few more notes before I go:

1.) I don't know the British government handles sending messages to the families of deceased soldiers. They may do something like America, they may do something completely different, I don't know, I am woefully unintelligent of these sorts of things, so I apologize for that. Also, I probably screwed up the time zone too, though that may just be me being paranoid.

2.) I'm still trying to figure out what year this goes in. this story takes place during the last couple of months in Deathly Hallows, around the time of either the Trio's capture or their stay at Shell Cottage, which according to the official HP time frame happened in 1998. However, the events in the desert definitely reflect more upon current events. So, really, take it as you will, it takes place in '98 but reflects current-day issues. It's meant to be fiction, not historical accuracy, so try not to yell at me TOO much over it.

3.) The characters in this chapter, while it may make no sense to the readers now, will be playing important roles later in the story, particularly Colonel Shepard and his staff and also Khalid Shiek Ali. Whether or not we shall see them more as the story develops before their important roles, I haven't decided yet.

4.) On the note of Khalid, I didn't want to try and stereotype, but if it comes off like I did, I just thought I'd say that's not my intention. Khalid, as do everyone out in the Middle East, live in a very different world than what I assume many are used to. Do I think their way of life is right? To that, I have no opinion, as I believe everyone has their own way of living. But I tried to make it more about the people than I did try to make it about the country. For many, this is their life, and they have lived with it all their lives. Maybe some accept it. Again, I don't try to assume, as it's not my place, but for the sake of the story, this is the world that I have come up with. I hope it does not offend, it is not my intention to.

5.) The character of Lisa Wallace is based off my ex-girlfriend, and the story of their meeting and first date reflect our own. I put this, not really to be over-obsessive or creepy, more as me finally trying to get over it and move on with my life. I figured, by writing about it, it would make it easier for me to move forward. So...yeah. In case you were wondering.

6 and final.) Yes, "Defence" IS spelled that way, I don't know why, it just is.

So, with that said, I hope you enjoyed it, and PLEASE review and give in your opinion. Reviews mean a lot to me, and I really hope you'll take the time to let me know if you like or hate something or have some tips for me.

Thank you, and see you later.


	4. Desert Rats

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** And now we set up the rest of the story. Well, the real story, at least. No, they won't be HERE the entire story, but this is going to pretty much be their lives until the end.

...You know what, I talk too much. Just enjoy.

* * *

Desert Rats

When it came to the idea of Hell, each man had a different opinion, other than that of a lake of fire and a red demon with horns on his head. Some envisioned it as a place where you meet all of the people who you had wronged in life and they all take turns kicking you in the crown jewels. Other men thought it was a place where a bunch of demons strung you up and tortured you in the worst possible ways. Still others thought Hell started when you were alive, when everything seemed to go south around them out of some karmatic form and then transcended when they died into something far worse.

For Scott Wallace, as he looked around at their surroundings, Hell might just be being stuck in an uninhabitable landmass with no sign of getting out.

He stood on top of the sand mound, looking around at nothing but the same dusty scenario in every direction. Nothing but sand, as far as the eye could see. Every way looked like a dead end. It was like they were trapped inside a snow globe, only instead of snow, there was sand.

Their company had been reduced to ninety-one- ninety-two counting himself- in a single night. There were seventy-four English, Irish, and Scots, ten Frenchman, six Russians and two Germans left out of the two-hundred men that had occupied Charlie Base. Out of the surviving group, only three of their men had been wounded seriously for immediate medical attention. The rest of the men had only minor cuts, bruises, and scrapes that just some iodine and a thing of whiskey would have all but fixed up.

From an officer's point of view, the men looked like a group of civilians defending themselves than a group of soldiers. Very few of the men wore full uniforms, and as such very few of the men had Kevlar vests to protect from bullets. Almost none of the men wore helmets. The majority of their surviving unit simply wore tan T-shirts, desert-colored camouflaged pants, and their boots. Some of the men wore desert-colored boone hats. To anyone other than themselves, they may have simply been out there on a miniature vacation.

Despite their appearances, all of them had held on to their weapons, and all of them were fully willing and able to use them if such a need came.

He turned and slid down the dune to their little camp they had set up. The vehicles were all parked in a cluttered semi-circle around their left flank, with the Humvees providing the exterior defense and the truck and the tank providing interior protection. The medical bus had both front and back doors open, and anyone could get on or off at any time when needed. The comms truck was on the outskirt of the semi-circle, with Stern locked away tight on who knew what. Inside the semi-circle, the men had set up several pup tents, the smallest being a three-to-four man tent and the biggest being a double-tent with a smaller funnel acting as a bridge between the two, connecting them together.

They had gone from a full military base to Tent City in the course of a night. It was astounding to him.

He made his way over to one of the Humvees, where a group of men were circled around while Sully was underneath it with his tools. The Humvee had drive right over a rock on its way out of the compound, and the thing had cut right into the underside and towards the end of the night it had started to show its problems. That was half the reason why they had set up camp, to fix the problem. The other half being that they needed to rest and recompose themselves.

"How we looking, Sully?" he asked.

There was a loud sigh as Sully pushed himself out from underneath the vehicle, wiping his hands on a dirty handkerchief.

"The oil tank's taken a beating," he said. "She's leaking out, massive crack right in the tank. I've got some tape over it right now, but she'll need more than that."

"Can you fix it?" This question came from Tucker, who looked like he was about to have a panic attack.

"I can get a clear patch on it and do repairs, but it's going to take a while," the mechanic replied. "A couple days at the most."

"Well get it done as fast as you can," Scott ordered. "I don't want to be staying out here for very long."

"Aye, Captain. Working on it."

"Alright. The rest of you, shove off. Let the man work."

There was a brief mumble from the men as they grabbed their packs and weapons and trodded off. They were dirty, tired, hungry and, most of all, angry. None of them had quite experienced something like this, and none of them had a clue as to what to do about it. They wanted something to shoot; problem was, there was nothing, for the moment, to shoot at.

Lieutenant Port walked up to him, looking more grim than usual. There was a green bandana tied around his face, covering his missing eye and ear and wrapping around and just above the remaining ones. His face was still pale, but his strength was returning.

"The sergeants are taking inventory on what ammunition we have left," he told the captain. "It's not much, but it's enough. We just need to conserve it as much as we can."

"Good." Ammunition was the only thing that would ensure their current survival; without it, they did not stand a ghost of a chance. "Food and water?"

"That's another story. We've stored up enough to last a couple of weeks, but after that, we'd better find friendly forces or be found."

That would be a problem. One could not live without food and water, especially not in the desert. And out here, there were precious few places where they could get more.

"Well, we'll just have to hold out as long as we can..." Wallace looked up at the clear, blue sky. "There's no telling how long we're going to be out here."

Port sighed and scratched his face under his bandana. Scott could tell that the wound was probably itchy as hell, and having a gaping hole where his eye should be probably was not helping any.

"How is it?" he asked his friend.

"It's an eye." Despite the pain, Port managed a grin. "I'm just lucky God saw fit to give me two of them."

They both laughed at that, just a little, but it was a welcome relief to the looming cloud of fear and dread that had hung over them since their exit. As bad as things were, a little humor could make things better, if only for a little while.

But as they both knew, reality had a harsh way of coming back down hard.

"Captain Wallace."

Sergeant Keaney's voice called out to them as his team returned from patrol. And, as Wallace watched them come back over the dunes, he saw that they had picked up a new friend.

McCoy and Redfield threw her onto the ground while Anwar placed the silenced muzzle of his M-4 to the back of her head. Keaney turned to the captain and his second as they approached them, Wallace's eyes fixed on her.

"Caught her following us when we were a couple miles out," the sergeant explained. "She practically gave herself away as being with the hostiles. Seems quite proud of it."

Wallace studied her intently, and the first thing that surprised him was how young she was. She could not have been older than eighteen or nineteen years old; what the hell was she doing out with this crowd? Then the second thing that surprised him was her appearance. Heavy bags under her green eyes, messy black hair, and a look to her young face that looked as though it had seen some terrible, terrible things. It gave her the appearance of being someone much older than she actually was. The third thing he saw was her smile. It was not an evil smile, or a polite smile, or even the innocent smile of the younger generation. It was a deranged, maddening smile, the kind you saw on men who had been on the front lines too long. The smile of a psychopath.

"Did you get a weapon off her?" he asked, eyes still locked on the prisoner.

"Just this," Keaney pulled out a long brown-colored stick, with a grip on one end and a point on the other, and handed it off to the captain.

He held it up to his face to examine it, and even after several times turning it around in his hands he still could not fully grasp the concept. The stick was eleven and a half inches long, made of ivory, and was very durable, but a stick was a stick, and on its own there was nothing particularly special about it. It had to be a gag. She probably threw her own weapon away before they caught her, and presented this twig just to take the mickey out of them.

"You're serious?" he said, raising an eyebrow at the sergeant with half a grin.

"It's what she gave us," Keaney said, and his face was still deadly serious. But then again, that was always his face. "When we asked her where her real weapon was, she said that this was it. Said that this was the only weapon her people needed."

He paused to let the information sink in. The half of a grin that was on Scott's face fell off as he turned back to the girl.

"You're kidding," he said, anger growing in his voice and on his face. "_This_ is how they managed to wipe out our entire base? They threw sodding STICKS at us?"

When he received no answer, he took the stick in both hands and snapped it into two pieces, throwing each part aside, as far away from each other as he could make them. He could see the reaction in her face- her eyes widening and her smile slipping- and it baffled him. What was it about this stick that was so important to her? The more confusing it was the more angry he became.

"Take her to the headquarters." He ordered. "Port, you and Charlie try and get anything out of her."

Redfield and McCoy lifted her to her feet and began to drag her off. Port began to follow, when Wallace put his hand on his shoulder and looked at him harshly.

"Will," he said, his voice a low harsh hiss, "do whatever it takes. Mess with her psychologically. Beat it out of her if you have to. I don't care what you do," he leaned his face in closer, so that he was sure his friend would get the message, "_but I want her to talk_."

Looking him in the eye, Port could see he was serious. The captain was normally a non-violent person, but this inexplicable attack on them was making him willing to do whatever it took to survive. Normally he would try to talk him out of it, but the fact was that he and the rest of them were all still angry too, and right now, whacking whatever information was swimming around in this girl's head seemed like a perfectly good way of taking that frustration out. He nodded.

"Aye, Captain," he said. "Whatever you say."

He was about to have her pulled away when she started laughing. It started as a slow little giggle, then erupted as a high-pitched cackle. The men around them stopped what they were doing and looked up at the source of the noise, some looking in confusion, some looking in some sort of fear (_of what?_). She looked right up at them, a cold glare to her eyes and a sneer to her face.

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know," she said in a Cockney accent. "But it won't make a bit of difference. Even if you know, it won't protect you from him. The Dark Lord is going to wipe your kind out of existence and there is not a thing you can do to prevent it."

"Get her out of here," Scott ordered. The younger soldiers were starting to inch closer, some with looks of panic growing on their faces at her words. They already had enough reason to be worried; he did not need this girl giving them another reason.

"_You're all going to die out here_!" she cried out, her voice piercing their eardrums. "The Dark Lord is going to leave you begging for death when he is through with all of you. Your corpses will be left for the buzzards and they'll pick you to the bone, and he'll just laugh at it. Load your weapons. Try and hide. It won't matter. He's coming for you. Say your prayers."

"Alright, lady, let's move." Anwar pushed her roughly forward, causing her to loose her balance. She was then half-dragged to the tent by the two men holding her, laughing and shouting back at them until she was finally inside the tent.

Wallace looked around at the men that were now staring at him in shock, some with mouths open, wondering what had just happened. In truth, he was wondering the exact same thing. This woman was a loony, it was evident in her appearance and her words, and yet what she had said was enough to put fear into anyone's heart.

As he stood there, staring off after them, a cold shiver went down his spine as her words echoed into his mind:

"_You're all going to die down here..."_

* * *

Danny took a sip from his canteen and then brought it over his neck and allowed its contents to splash down and cool himself off. Damn, that felt good.

He lowered the canteen, screwed the lid on, and placed it down so that he could grab his T-shirt and put it on. That was the equivalent of a shower for him today, and as much as it sucked not to be able to wash, rinse and repeat, at least it was better than being dead back at the base.

He and Matthews were sitting in the center of the camp, their weapons stacked against their tent, eating their cold lunches and trying to clean the filth off their bodies as best they could. Both sucked, and both were hated, but both were the best they could afford and they kept telling themselves that it was better than nothing. Better than what Port and Sykes and Mathenson were getting, with their wounds, with the third one on his deathbed. Doc had done the best he could, but they all knew he was not going to get any better. And better than Tubbs, Tony, Pete, Lieutenant Winters, and the rest of the lads were getting laying dead at the base.

They were glad to be alive. They just wished they could be alive in better conditions.

Doc had wrapped Danny's sprained ankle, and he was now doing his best to keep it elevated. It was nothing serious, he had suffered much worse playing football as a lad, but since they were all on permanent full alert and needed every able body they could get their hands on, it was a better safe than sorry scenario. It was aggravating, how he had to just sit and wait it out, but Doc insisted that it was not bad, and that he would be walking on his own in a day or two.

Hopefully.

Matthews gulped down his water and leaned backwards, sighing. The sun shone down on his tanned chest, brown from years of surfing and months in the desert. Were they on a beach, he would have been quite the sight for the ladies.

"Scorcher today," he said.

"Aye," replied Danny.

It was the usual conversation, but even that felt too contrived given the circumstances.

"What are we going to do, eh?" Matthews looked at him, concerned. "That lot last night...never seen anything like it."

"Me neither...they looked like a bloody cult, the way they were dressed. But I don't think a cult could do something like that."

"And the way they moved...d'you see the way they moved?"

"Aye, mate. Like ghosts."

"How does somebody move like that? Be there one second and be somewhere else the next? It doesn't make a bit of sense."

Danny shook his head. He had no more of a clue than the next man.

"And what was that stuff they were shooting? That green light? Didn't look like tracers."

"Aye, I was thinking that too. It looked like the kind of thing you'd see in a club or at a fireworks display."

"But Doc said how it killed someone just by hitting them. Didn't even leave a mark. I don't care if it's a tracer or a firework, it should leave some kind of a fucking mark, aye?"

"It should. But it didn't."

"So what does that mean?"

"I don't know, mate. Whatever attacked Echo, and whatever attacked us...whatever IT was, it's powerful."

And what did that mean for them, he had to wonder. And the rest of the units out here. If whatever got them could do this much damage to two bases, what else could they do?

"Captain's got a plan, right?" Matthews wondered. "I mean, he's got to be something. A plan of attack, _something_."

Danny shook his head again. "Right now I think his only plan is to stay alive long enough to come up with something better."

"What if they come back?"

"Then it's our problem, isn't it?"

He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and opened the top of the pack. Only one left; this probably would not do much for him through the course of the day. He took it out and placed it in the corner of his mouth, then fished around his pockets for a lighter.

"Damn it," he cursed when his search came up empty. "You got a light?"

"No, sorry. Spent my last pack of matches getting the fire going last night."

Danny groaned. He needed some nicotine during the day, otherwise, things just went downhill. And this being his last cigarette, he was already in for a world of hurt anyway, so why not enjoy it one last time?

"Want a light?"

They both looked up as Marek came over, his backpack in his left hand and his rifle in the other. He bent down, placed his bag on the ground, pulled a lighter out of his vest, clicked it twice, and got the flame going.

"Salvation." Danny grinned as he put the cigarette to the flame long enough to light it and, with it still in his mouth, backed away and inhaled the smoke. Ah, that hit the spot. It was hazardous to his health, but hey, so was war.

"Thanks, Marek," he said. "What's in the bag."

"Oh, some food I had lying around. I figured I'd bring it around, help out." He took out two chocolate bars and handed it to the two of them. "Here. For your troubles."

"Oh..._yaaay_," Matthews said, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. The chocolate bars that Command insisted on sending them were the hard blocks of concrete that took ages to chew through. One guy they knew lost a tooth just trying to take of a piece. Matthews spent more time than anyone else trying to figure out just how to eat the things.

"Happy to help." Marek suddenly looked up at the sky. "Yes, Father, I'm going." he stood again. "Alright, I'll be going to dish out the rest of this. You two take care now."

"Aye..." Danny watched him go off in complete bewilderment. Marek seemed a stranger to worry; he carried on with his head held high, just like he always did. Maybe it was just him making the best out of a bad situation, but jeepers if it did not weird him out sometimes.

"Every time I start to think he might be okay enough to present to a family member, he pulls out the 'I-can-talk-to-God' stuff and it turns him into a fruitcake," he said, opening the chocolate bar. "Whenever my mother asks about him, I just say 'he's fine' and try to change the subject."

"Why's your mum asking for Marek?" Matthews questioned, taking out his knife and trying to cut a piece of the chocolate off.

"I mentioned one time on the video chat that we had a former missionary in the camp. She got excited, her family's full of men who traveled all over on missionary work, and she says she wanted to meet him. So I go outside to go get him and he was walking around and yelling right up to the sky."

"And that made you change your mind about introducing him?"

"No, it was the fact that he was bare-arse naked while he was doing it."

Matthews stopped his work and looked up at his friend. "You're taking the piss? Completely starkers?"

"Before God and everybody. Said it was to commemorate the arrival of Adam and Eve into the Garden of Eden back when God created the earth."

"Why don't I remember this?"

"It was before you shipped in. About a month or two."

"Blimey...what did you tell your mum?"

"I told him her he was doing an assignment for the captain. Ever since then I try to steer the conversation around him."

"Yeah, I would too. That's mental."

"Well, that's Marek."

The machine-gunner began tapping furiously at the bar with his knife, to no avail. Finally he threw it down in defeat.

"Christ, how the hell do you EAT this thing? Do you have to boil it?"

"I think Tucker tried that once."

"Yeah? And?"

"Didn't work. Thing was just as solid as it was when he dropped it in."

"See, this is what brings my piss to a boil." Matthews held up the candy bar. "Why would Command give us something we can't even chew through? We can't break it with a rifle butt, we can't shave some of it off with a knife, I can't smash it under my foot unless I feel like breaking my foot open. And now it doesn't even boil. What's next, I'm going to plant a grenade next to it and it's just going to sit there and take it?"

He fumed over that for a minute before finally stuffing the bar into his bag.

"Screw it. I'll figure it out later. I'm going to go clean my gun." He slung his bag over his shoulder and stood up. "I'll catch you later. Keep your ankle elevated."

"Thanks, Mum. Try not to break your foot on a chocolate bar, aye?"

"Tosser." Matthews kicked his foot softly against Danny's leg and took off.

Danny laid back and smoked on his final cigarette and looked up at the clear blue sky. It really was a beautiful day, all in all, almost as if they were on the beach, getting a tan, and shooting the shit. Minus the ocean and all of its beautiful female inhabitants, of course. Were it not for their current predicament, it would almost be a nice place to be.

Almost.

* * *

"Alright, we are somewhere around here..."

Wallace drew a line from their base to their supposed location on the map. Gathered around him were Lieutenant Hunter and the three staff sergeants, as well as Sergeant Grimes, all of whom were forced to memorize where they were and the surrounding areas by heart. The map showed a detailed grid-by-grid depiction of the country, with dots representing each town, some little, some big. It would help, not by much, but it would still help.

"As you can see," he drew a large circle around their location, "it's just us and a few thousand acres of sand out here. Command base is about five hundred, six hundred miles out."

"Never realized until just now how far away we were from everybody..." Carter shook his head as he bit off a piece of a nutria-grain bar.

"The only other bases near us are Echo and Delta..." Ryan pointed to a spot off to their west. "Could we try making a break for Delta?"

"The way this force has been moving, I wouldn't be surprised if Delta's compromised right now," said Wallace grimly.

"Shouldn't we try and warn them?"

"How?" Hunter asked, somewhat pessimistically. "The radios are dead, it would take us three days to get there via convoy and a week to get there on foot. If we had air support we could get there in a couple of hours, but we don't. Either way, we'd probably be too late."

"But with two bases down," Pratt added in, "they might be ready for it. They might be on full alert. Maybe they can beat it, and we can come in to help-"

"We were ready for it too, Greg," the captain reminded him. "And it didn't do us a whole lot of good in the long run."

"So we're just going to do nothing?" Ryan stated angrily. "Sit by and let them get taken out?"

"We don't have a choice, Dale. If we go to them, we might end up in the exact same situation we just left. It's every man for himself out here."

Pratt chewed loudly on a stick of gum. Ryan wiped his brow with the back of his hand, clearly displeased but recognizing that there was nothing he could do about it.

"As soon as Sully gets the vehicles up and running, we're going to head for Command." Wallace circled the command base, almost entirely on the other side of the map from where they were. "It should be a straight shot through the desert."

"Well, that's the good news, what's the bad?" Carter wanted to know.

"The bad news is, as you're all aware, we don't have nearly enough gas to get us there. So we're going to have to make a few pit stops at the smaller villages to supply ourselves, if the locals are willing to help-"

"And if the rebels haven't already gotten to them," said Hunter.

"Those are some pretty big ifs," the staff sergeant noted.

"Well, we'll deal with those when we get to them," Wallace said with a sigh. "In the meantime, we'll set up defenses. Lieutenant Hirko says he will have two of his men on twenty-four hour guard every day, they'll switch off every day. Weber and Riley have dug themselves sniper pits right half a mile out, they'll keep an eye on anything coming at us from the south."

"What about the Russians?"

"Nicholai's got his mechanic working on the tank, and the rest have the eastern flank locked down tight. If anything's coming at us from there, they'll handle it."

"Alright." Ryan popped some M&M's into his mouth. "What about internal defenses? Claymores?"

"Not out here. Sand might swallow them whole, we'd have no idea where they'd ended up until one of us trips it. We'll just have our men dig their trenches and keep their weapons on them. Have someone on the Humvee turrets at all times. Send out group patrols, make sure at least one squad leader goes with every patrol. No one goes out alone, ever. Not even to pop a squat. Am I clear on that?"

"Aye, Captain." Everyone nodded in agreement. Going out alone was the last thing anyone wanted to do, especially now.

"Alright, platoon leaders, report to your platoons, give out your orders to your men. Dismissed. Sergeant Grimes, hang back, please."

Grimes, who had for the entire meeting been silently watching on as the more senior platoon sergeants had been conferring, paused just as he was halfway from getting up. He then continued to rise, but stayed where he was as the other sergeants sauntered off to bark out their orders.

He had been confused when he had been invited to sit in on the briefings, especially since he was the only junior sergeant to be invited; not even Price was sitting in on it. True, they were short on sergeants after the attack, but all three staff sergeants were still standing, so why invite him in? Well, he guessed, he was about to find out.

Captain Wallace and Lieutenant Hunter had also risen. Hunter hung back, his arms folded and eying Grimes with a mixed look of contempt and pity that Grimes could not for the life of him figure out.

"Franky, have you seen Sergeant Evansmann?" Wallace asked, folding his arms.

"Um...no, sir. I heard he was one of the KIA's," came the answer.

"Aye, I'm starting to believe that too. And since no one seems to be able to locate him, it leaves a very big gaping hole in my command structure. And I need that hole filled."

"I'm...I'm not sure I'm following, sir."

He watched the two officers exchange a glance and was starting to get nervous. Whatever they were going to tell him, it could not be good or otherwise they would just come out and say it. Wallace turned back to him.

"How well do you think you can handle the company, Sergeant?"

Now Grimes was just completely lost. "Um...well, I know I can handle them in a firefight, sir, and they listen to me fairly well on patrols and when I'm giving out orders, so...I'd have to say yeah, I can handle the men well. Sir."

"I hope you're right," the captain managed a grim smile. "Because I'm appointing you Acting Company Sergeant Major."

The words hit Grimes with the effect of someone dropping a brick onto his stomach. Sergeant Major, or Warrant Officer Class 2, was as high a rank as a non-commissioned officer could go in terms of his company. Were they a regimental unit, he'd still have two more classes to go, but this...this was beyond what he had ever anticipated.

"Oh...um...I see..." was all he could say. What else COULD he say? It was a hell of an honor, but given the circumstances it had been the farthest thing from his mind.

"It's a big responsibility, Franky. The men are going to be looking to you for direction. You're going to be the one setting the tone." Seeing the stunned look on the sergeant's face, Wallace added, "but if you don't think you can handle that, I can get Price or Keaney to do it instead. If you'd prefer."

"Yes...I mean, no...I mean..." Grimes took a deep breath and nodded. "I can handle it, sir. I can do it."

Wallace smiled fully now.

"Good," he said. "Get your stuff together and head on over to the command tent. I'll fill you in on the rest of your duties there. I'm going to be relying on you for a lot around here."

"Aye, Captain. I won't let you down, sir."

"I know you won't," Wallace slapped his subordinate's arm. "Alright, get going."

Grimes turned, tripped over his feet, and fell face-first into the sand. He hastily got back up, brushed himself off, threw a sheepish look at his commanding officers, and then took off again. Hunter watched him go and shook his head.

"Eager little bugger," he said with a chuckle.

"He's a ten year veteran, he's been recommended for Quartermaster Sergeant three times, clean record, thinks for himself, takes orders well, he's good with the men, and he's the best shot with a rifle in the company next to Weber," Wallace told him. "The only thing that's been keeping him back is how young he acts. He's going to have to grow up quick."

"He'll do fine."

Scott hoped he would. It was a hell of a thing to thrust on a man in this kind of situation. A soldier had enough to worry about just keeping himself alive; put him in a command situation and it was do or die. Grimes had a lot more experience that many of the other soldiers did not have; the captain just hoped that would be enough.

"Captain Wallace?"

Charlie had come up behind him. They both turned to him.

"Mathenson just died, sir," he said. "Doc said he did everything he could for him. His wounds were just too severe."

Hunter hung his head. Wallace sighed. _Now_ they were at ninety-one altogether.

He just hoped that they could keep that number long enough to get everyone out of there.

* * *

Stern had called Danny over not long after Matthews had sauntered off. The tech nerd had a tired, disheveled look to his face that did not look to have seen much sleep, but then again, neither did the rest of them. What was not on the rest of them, however, was urgency. He looked like he had made the breakthrough of a lifetime.

So Danny obeyed his orders, and hobbled over to the tech truck, where Stern was waiting with Price. The sergeant looked weary and impatient, but kept silent as the soldier joined them.

"Sully has to work on fixing the Humvee, so he couldn't be here," Stern explained to them. "Someone's going to have to fill him in later."

"Alright, so what is it, then?" Danny asked.

Stern did not answer at first. He took his glasses off and rubbed his weary eyes, then held his hand over his mouth and stared off at a spot in the sand. He was in his own zone, and it was a nasty habit of his. Stern spent so much time locked away in the lab that he was in his own little world twenty-four-seven. He put the glasses back on his face and took something out of his pocket and held it up to them.

It was the glass top.

"When you guys gave this to me, I told you that I thought it was a new invention of some kind," he told them. "But 'new' isn't the best word to describe it. At least, not in the sense that we would use 'new'."

Price frowned. "I don't follow."

"Look," Stern brought them closer, over to one of the crates set up outside where his large microscope was set up. He then gently unscrewed the top off and placed the underside of it under the scope.

"Why didn't it go off?" Danny asked curiously.

"Now that it's taken apart, I don't think it works as well. Just take a look."

He and Price shared a look before the sergeant put his eyes to the scope.

"See those white spots?" Stern asked. "That's a mold bacteria. It shows the age of it. You wouldn't see it on the outside because somebody kept it clean, but the interior gives it dead away."

"Lemme see," Danny placed his eye to the scope and looked. Sure enough, there were white spots, some miniscule, some larger blotches, dotting all along the underside.

"Alright, so it's aged a bit. So?"

"So this thing was hi-tech, right? This thing had no circuits, no hard drive of any kind, no remote controlled sensors, nothing. It was just a top, spinning on its own, probably the first of its kind, right?"

"Yes, we got it," snapped Price impatiently. "So what's the point?"

"The point is, it's _old_. At the time I discovered it, I wasn't sure how old, but I could already tell it wasn't made this century, or even last century, for that matter. Bacteria like that can date as far back as the late seventeenth century to early eighteenth century."

"_What_?" Danny looked back up, stunned. "No way they could have had something like that back then."

"Aye, I figured it. And it gets stranger. After I studied it, I decided to have it dated, get a better idea of what this thing is and when it was made." He reached into his pocket again and this time took out a folded piece of paper. "I had to wait until after we made camp, I had wanted to do it back at base, but...well, anyway, I ran the C-14 scan with what I had in the truck, not state-of-the-art, but it gets the job done, and...well, _look_."

He handed the paper to Price, who unfolded it as Danny looked over his shoulder. Their eyes scanned across the single line that was typed down there:

244 +-26

"What the hell does this mean?" Price asked, waving the paper around.

"That's the date," Stern replied with a sigh. "It's two hundred and forty-four years old, plus or minus twenty-six years."

"_What_?!" Danny looked from the date on the paper back to Stern, then back and forth twice more. "You can't be serious."

"Run the test again." The sergeant forcefully handed back the paper. "This has to be a mistake."

"I already did. Twice." Stern shook his head. "Both times came out the same. There's a difference in the number of years plus or minus, but it shows roughly the same number. There's no mistake here; whoever made this thing, they made it almost two hundred and fifty years ago."

The words hit them with the weight of a sledgehammer. Danny looked down at the split remains of the glass top. First this thing had freaked them out in Weber's tent...then the attack on their base...and now this...was all of it related? It seemed that way, but then what did that mean, that they were fighting a force that had been around for two and a half centuries? And if so, how the HELL did that work?

"Guys," Stern asked, his voice cracking at what Danny thought was helplessness. It made him shudder. "What the hell are we up against here?"

"Something big, Mikey," Price said, and as he and Danny shared a look, the private could see something there that made him very scared; a hard, cold look, the eyes that only belonged to someone who had seen something really heavy and knew when it was coming back.

"Something really big..."

* * *

"Whoever they were," Terry lit up a cigarette and took a long inhale before exhaling it out, "you can bet anything that they'll be back."

He was sitting off to the outside of the semi-circle, leaning back on his elbow as he had his smoke. Tucker and Jason sat near him, both eating out of cans of spam. Across from them sat Finn, Murphy, and Owen, who were performing the same rituals in reverse order. They sat near the Humvee that Sully was hard at work fixing, and they could see his feet sticking out from underneath it.

"D'you see that girl Keaney's mates brought in?" Tucker asked them all.

"Heard her, more like it," answered Jason, shaking his head. "She screamed 'you're all going to die out here' loud enough I'm amazed my deaf grandmother back home didn't hear her."

"You're amazed your deaf grandmother didn't hear something?"

"You get what I mean, you twat."

"I saw her come in too," Terry said, lying back with the cigarette jutting out of his mouth. "And I saw that weapon they pulled off her. It was a sodding stick."

"A stick? You taking the piss?" Murphy asked in amazement.

"Honest to God in Heaven. A stick."

"What the fuck was she planning on doing? Coming into camp and beating us all to death with it?" Owen asked with a disbelieving laugh.

"That's a suicide mission I d-d-don't relish," stammered the Irish mechanic.

"Wouldn't do her much good, anyway," continued Terry. "The stick was hardly any bigger than a twig."

"She came in to attack us with a twig-sized stick," Finn repeated, more as a statement proving how ridiculous the story sounded to him.

"Aye. And it wasn't even a sharp stick, it was all smoothed out. Definitely a pretty looking stick, it was," Terry barked out a laugh, and a cloud of smoke went up with it.

"Oh come off it," the machine-gunner shook his head. "If you're going to go through the trouble of attacking us, at least have a sharpened stick to make it LOOK like you were trying to be serious. Otherwise, you just look silly."

They sat in silence, wondering how a smooth stick the size of a twig was supposed to come off as threatening. The thought of it just made them laugh. If you were going to threaten someone, they knew the best way to do it was kick the door in and place the barrel of a fifty caliber magnum to a man's kneecap and threaten to blow it away. You don't wave a stick at someone's face, that's kid's stuff. Granted, the gun was sure to run out of ammo faster than the stick was, but one bullet was the equivalent of fifty whacks at someone's backside.

Then Jason started chuckling. Terry and Tucker glanced over at him.

"What?" Tucker asked.

"Ah, nothing. Just a thought."

"Well, don't keep us in the dark, what is it?" Terry wanted to know.

"Nah, nothing."

"No, fuck nothing. Tell us."

Jason swallowed the dried fish in his mouth then grinned at them.

"What if she thought it was a magic wand, eh? And she was going to try and come in to put a spell on us..." He could barely finish the sentence as he and the others started laughing at the thought.

"Aye," Terry said, sitting up again. "And I suppose all of her mates at the base were flying around on fucking broomsticks and wearing pointy hats, aye?"

This brought on a chorus of hard laughter from them, particularly from Tucker, who rolled in the sand, clutching his sides. It was not a particularly funny thought on its own, but for a reason known only to them it had struck a real funny bone in their bodies.

"Oh, that...that is good," Tucker wheezed out, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes.

Owen took a huff from his cigarette and blew it out.

"Then again, it's not all entirely unbelievable," he said to them. "My mum, you know, she used to believe that there was some supernatural force at work, something you couldn't see plain out in front of your face. Not witches and wizards, none of that Dungeons and Dragons shit, but something more real."

"Yeah, well, no offense to you or your mum, mate, but I think she's nuttier than a bag of pecans," Jason noted, reaching forward to place his now-empty can back in his bag.

"I'm not saying I believed it too, I'm just saying."

"Yeah, well," Terry looked at the cigarette in his hands, as the last signs of life were fading from it, seriousness taking hold again. "I'm saying what I know to be true. And that's that this isn't over. They'll be back."

That statement soiled the mood for all of them. They sat in silence for another moment as their thoughts returned to that of the previous night. Something surreal had taken out their base, that was for sure, and it had really given them a kick to the ass. If it came back, could they make some sort of stand? Or would they just end up like the others, and the desert would serve as their final resting place? That was what scared them the most; that they would get killed out here, and no one would ever know it, they would just disappear without a trace.

Terry flicked the spent cigarette aside.

"You know what I could go for right about now?" he asked aloud. "A nice, gut-kicking pint."

"Ohhh, don't get me started," Jason groaned. "I've been dying for some scotch for the last twenty-four hours. If it rained scotch from the heavens right now, I would be eternally grateful."

"I'd go for a shot of whiskey myself," Tucker piped up.

"Oh, you Irish and your fucking whiskey," his Scottish friend said in a horrible imitation of an Irish accent, ruffling up the nerdy man's hair and laughing.

Terry closed his eyes as he tried to taste the beautiful taste of ale on his tongue. "Just one drink, and I'd be set for life."

"Someone call my name?"

The six of them looked up as Archie came over to them, his Cheshire Cat-like grin plastered on his face with a look in his eyes of him knowing something they did not.

"What? No," Tucker looked around at all of them, who all looked as confused as he did.

"You sure?" Archie bent down to be at their level. "Because I'm fairly certain that, just now, one of you said my name."

"No, Arch, we didn't call your name, seriously," Murphy stated.

"No, I'm sure you did. You just didn't realize it."

"What the fuck are you babbling about, man? We didn't call your name." Jason and Terry exchanged baffled looks.

"Well, then," the bus driver stood back up and began walking away. "I guess I got this surprise ready for nothing. I'll just go now..."

They all looked amongst themselves. Archie rarely had surprises, but the times he did have them were usually worth it. He had a way of making things appear like magic; things that generally made everyone feel better.

"Yo, Arch!" Terry called, grabbing his rifle and getting up. "Hold up, mate!"

The others grabbed their gear and followed suit, minus Sully, who was still underneath the Humvee. Archie turned to see them following and, still with that mischievous smile on his face, lead them towards the back of the medical bus.

He turned the latch and threw open the door and stepped aside to let them see. All six mouths dropped, then seconds later turned into massive smiles. Jason started laughing gleefully and clapping his hands together. Terry looked at Archie as though he had found Christ.

"You brought the still," he said.

"Of course I brought the still," Archie chided, pulling forward the large sphere-shaped tin can with the nozzle in front and the chemistry set hooked in to its side. "In what alternate universe do I not bring the still?"

"Ha _ha_, YEAH!" Jason jumped in the air, and then wrapped his arms around Tucker and swung him around. Terry grabbed the driver's head and fiercely kissed his cheek.

"This is why I love this man! Right here!" he shouted to nobody and everybody in particular, not caring of the queer looks that were thrown his way by a pair of soldiers walking by.

Finn broke the cups out and Archie poured each cup with an equal amount so that all seven of them had a fair share. They raised the glasses over their heads.

"To our health," Archie said. They all agreed and tapped the cups together.

The taste of the gods' nectar flowing down their throats was a taste that none of them would give up for all of the peace in the world. Especially Archie's brew; his "Essence of Helena", as he so delicately named it, was a drink that had the boys in the company scrambling to line up for seconds. They drained the cups in seconds, but allowed the alcohol to take its time going down their throats. It was the best taste in the world.

Terry lowered his cup and smacked his lips.

"God, that hit the spot," he said. "Archie, you're the man."

"Don't I already know it?" Archie laughed. "Now who's up for another round?"

There was a general round of cheers as they all handed in their cups to be refilled.

When in a hostile environment, one always needed to find a way to relieve stress. The less of a unit there were, the harder that was. Yet it is possible, if you tilt your head and look the right away, to find a way to make the best of it. Sometimes it was by having something to do, like a patrol or a meeting. Sometimes it was eating or smoking. And still other times, it involved telling a crazy story and fighting over how to eat a chocolate bar.

And sometimes, as rare as it was, sometimes all it took was a cup of homemade swill and friendly company to turn an otherwise bad situation into a good afternoon.

* * *

It occurred to me, as I was going through British ranks that there IS no First Sergeant rank for British enlisted men- or at least, none from what I could find. So those first two chapters was a mess-up on my part. I'm just glad I caught it before I did this chapter, otherwise, it might have been bad.

Nothing really too much to say on this one. Some things in this chapter require suspension of disbelief on the reader's part, specifically the part involving the Sneakoscope, but otherwise it's just a set-up chapter.

Read, review, and...yeah, see you next time.


	5. A Soldier's Tale

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** So I've decided that there will be at least one new chapter every two months, no more than two, I believe. Again, I'm working on two chapters at a time, so no more than two chapters every two months. If I post something in between, super.

So, with no more words wasted, here we go.

* * *

A Soldier's Tale

Wallace stepped into the medical tent, where Doc was putting the finishing touches on Sykes' leg brace. The communications specialist was squirming uncomfortably as the gray metal brace enclosed his leg from his hip to the boot closing over his foot.

"You're lucky we packed this, Sykes," Doc said as he tightened the straps. "It probably won't do bollocks in the long run, but it's better than a stick propped against your leg and held with tape."

Sykes just grunted, not looking at him. This was already hell enough for him.

"How are you doing, lad?" Scott asked, sitting down on the opposite cot.

"Fine, sir," he said quietly, still not looking up. His eyes stayed on his leg, looking at it like a father watching his son being lowered into the grave.

Sykes had been a runner his whole life. In middle and high school he had been the fastest track and cross country runner on the teams. On a good day he had a five minute and forty-five second mile, and on the track that time was cut down by a quarter. His brother Pete had run some with him, mainly to get himself prepared for football, but it was older brother Spencer that was the real pro, the one who took it seriously. In the mornings on the base, were one to get up early enough, they were sure to see him sprinting around the compound, his legs bulging, sweat on his brow, running as gracefully as a gazelle.

So to see him now, his leg in a cold metal vice to maintain what bone structure it still had, was a hard sight for any of them to see but was worse off for Sykes. Even if they got out of this mess, with a break like that the chances of him being one hundred percent again were very low, and he knew it. Running had been the one thing in his life that he had had absolute control over; now that it was gone, what did he have?

"Doc, how bad is it?" Scott asked the medic.

"Bad, to put it bluntly. Everything from the femur to the fibula is cracked, and his hip's dislocated. I can pop that back in, but broken bone's another matter. It has to heal on its own."

"Any idea how long?"

"A break this bad, hard to say. Nine weeks minimum, but that's just an estimate. Could be months before he's walking on his own again, and even then, it could be years before he's back to normal, IF he's lucky."

"Not too much optimism there," Scott pointed out.

Doc sighed. His bedside manner was a horrible one, and one that he had promised to work on but never got around to doing so. He found that it was often better just to put it bluntly and simply, even if it brought the worst kind of news.

"Sorry, Captain," he apologized. "I understand it's not ideal. But that thing really did a number on him; for what it's worth, he's lucky it was only his leg."

"Still not very comforting, mate," said Sykes.

"Right...sorry..."

Wallace sat down on the cot next to Sykes and patted him gently on the shoulder. Sykes smiled slightly, but it was not strong enough and it quickly slid back into a frown, which brought the smile off of the captain's own face. The Freedman brothers were usually among the more cheerful soldiers; to see them- or in this case, to see the one living one- looking despondent was an oddly demoralizing sight.

"Did you...find Petey?" Sykes asked, glancing up.

Wallace shook his head. "We looked, we took role multiple times, but he's never turned up. At this point...it's not looking good..."

Sykes closed his eyes and looked away. It hurt Scott to see him like this. It hurt whenever they lost someone, but to lose a brother, especially one that he was so close to...it was no knowledge that Sykes loved Pete, even though the two of them fought constantly; he looked out for him and mothered him when their mother, a single parent, could not be there to do it herself. And now to have lost him...Scott himself had two siblings, and the thought of losing one of them...

"We, uh...we'll be having a ceremony for the lads we lost noon tomorrow." It was sudden, but to be getting it over with quickly would be best. "If...you want to say anything about your brother, we'll find a way to get you out there-"

"He's not dead."

Doc sighed and shook his head; he had heard this from him already. Wallace frowned. Sykes continued to look away from him.

"Petey's not dead," he stated. "I don't know...he's just not dead..."

"Spencer," the captain interrupted. "I know it's hard, but think about what you're saying. We've lost over a hundred men. The possibility of anyone else besides us being alive out there...it's not good."

Sykes let out a quick snort and finally looked up at his commanding officer. He propped up his elbows and painfully pushed himself up so that he could be level with the sitting captain. His smile was bitter, yet it was also a little bit wistful; it was as if he knew something that the others did not.

"This one time," he said, "when we were younger, I was...twelve, thirteen, something like that, and Petey was six or so. And Petey, he, uh, he broke his right arm, playing football with some of the neighborhood lads. My mum freaked out, Dad had left years before, so to have one of us hurt was just...it wasn't good for her.

"We took him to the doctor's, and he ran us through it. This bloke, Jackie Sullivan, big bloke, I mean BIG, even then he was half the size of a pick-up truck...he was always known for being rough, and he was guarding Pete and when he ran into him it was hard enough that they both fell over, and Jackie landed on Pete, Pete's arm got caught under his back, and the lad landed hard enough that it snapped the bone. Then when he stood up he stood on Pete's arm and made it even worse when he pushed off it. A clean break, the doc said. He wrapped the arm up, and told us it would take twelve weeks until he could take it off.

"That wasn't so bad compared to what he said next. Apparently, Jackie tore some nerve or something when he stood on Pete's arm, I was too young to really get it, but it meant basically...that Petey couldn't play sports anymore. That his arm wouldn't be able to move the way he needed it to in order to play, in order to do...well, anything, really, anything major involving sports. He said that even with surgery, there wasn't much of a chance.

"Well, Petey, he was devastated. He's a small kid, always has been, but football was his life, he loved it. He had had such hopes, primary school, college, university, then play pro, and in one game...gone, all of it."

He paused for a bit as the memory of the incident returned to him. Wallace was fascinated by the tale, but had to wonder if any of it was true, especially that last bit. The problem with it was that Pete was always seen on the compound kicking the ball around and his arm had always looked fine. He had never reported any arm problems during calisthenics or in combat, and this story did not fit into what he had always seen from the youngest Freedman. As he was about to ask, however, Sykes continued.

"Anyway, about five weeks later, our uncle took us out on the lake for some ice skating, this was mid-December or so. And um...Petey...the poor blighter, he fell through some thin ice," he told hem, earning him some shocked looks from the captain and the medic. "Yeah, he had slid off towards a bad spot in the lake, and he couldn't really turn away with a big bulky cast on. He was down there for...hours, it was definitely hours, the sun was setting by the time we pulled him out...we all thought he was dead, we were about to give up..."

He sniffed a bit and then presented them with another smile. "But when they pulled my brother out from under the ice, Captain, not only was he still alive, but that broken arm of his? Completely healed. It was like brand new, and to this day, he hasn't had a single problem with it."

Scott looked over at Doc, who looked over at him with a skeptical look to rival the captain's astonished look. Neither knew how to take this tale. Doc had never been known to take anything beyond face value, while Scott believed that there was something mysterious in the world that could save a man from a car crash or keep a woman from getting on a plane doomed to explode, but even still, this story was one to wrap a head around.

"So, Captain," Sykes said, as he started to lower himself back onto his back, "if you can explain how that's possible- explain how my crippled brother could fall through thin ice and come out of it like a brand new child- then I'll believe you when you tell me he's dead. But until then, I'm not buying it."

He turned his head, indicating that he did not want to talk anymore. Wallace stood up, looking down at him as if he were a stranger, then looked up at Doc, who shrugged.

"Definitely one of the more interesting stories I've heard," he said.

"Keep your eye on him" Wallace ordered, quietly, so that the private would not hear them. "Stand by him, make sure he gets taken care of. I don't think he's dealing with this properly."

"There's really no 'proper' way of dealing with losing your brother, Captain. But I get it. I'll make sure I keep him company."

Wallace smiled. "If there's someone else I could ask I would, but as the primary physician-"

"Just because I don't like people doesn't mean I can't handle them. I've got it, sir. You go do what you have to do."

Scott clapped him on the back, gave a nod to Sykes, and stepped back outside while Doc went over to his patient to check the straps on his leg brace. While he did not like people, he had never minded the Freedman brothers, had had conversations with Sykes once or twice, and so he could say that this one was not going to be as much of a hassle as the rest of them were.

"Alright, Spence," he said, tightening the strap around his knee. "Get cozy, rest up, if you need anything just holler. I will do my best to make your life as comfortable as I can, so just let me know what you need, aye?"

Sykes just nodded stiffly. Doc gave him a smile and got up to wash his hands, his job done for the moment.

Though he had acknowledged by now that a medic's job was never done.

* * *

Tucker followed Terry to the outside of their pup tent but when Terry suddenly stopped he did too, if just to avoid walking into his friend's backside. His clumsy feet, however, slipped against the sand and so he fell forward anyway, into Terry and causing him to almost lose his own balance. He turned to glare at Tucker, who stood back up sheepishly.

"Sorry," he apologized.

Terry sighed. Tucker was like a little kid with A.D.D. If he did not have him and Jason to watch over him, he'd be a lost little puppy. The lad needed nurturing, and the two of them were like his nannies doing so, it was almost pathetic. He loved the lad like a little brother, but Lord, was he a clumsy mess.

"This is ridiculous. Why's he having us Solid Snake our way around camp, like we've got something to hide," he grumbled, tapping against the flap three times.

"Well, we do. Technically."

"Well, it's not like we're running around with the Queen's handbag or whatever."

They heard some shuffling from inside the tent, and then heard Jason's voice hiss, "Who is it?"

"Who do you think it is, you tosser?" asked an impatient Terry. "Let us in already."

"What's the password?"

"_Fuck off and let us in before I break your face._"

"Good enough. Come on in."

Jason unzipped the tent flap and held it open for the other two, who pushed in roughly (or, Terry did that, Tucker just followed hurriedly behind him) and stood in between two of the three sleeping bags that were their bunks. Their friend zipped the flaps back up and turned to face them.

"Right then," he said, looking down at their feet, where the bag he had recovered from the base lay. "Let's get down to business..."

Tucker gulped as they sat down around the bag. Jason unclipped the the latches and opened the bag up to reveal its contents. All three of them peered in and looked at their prize with mixed reactions of delight, skepticism, and worry.

They looked in at six hundred thousand U.S. dollars, all fresh and crisp in their bag as if waiting for their big debut.

_Terry kicked the door down and covered the other two while they bolted through the open door frame. From the rooftops, a rebel sniper started taking pot shots at him. Two bullets hit the wall on either side of his head. He fired three shots, not hitting a thing, then followed them into the building and slammed the door shut._

"_Bloody hell, this is getting too close," he panted, shaking his head._

_They heard a mortar explosion from further in town. "Jesus, I hope no one's getting too banged up," Jason replied._

"_Captain probably has it under control..." Terry placed a chair against the door to add weight to it. "We need to figure out how to get un-turned around, get back to the rest of the platoon."_

"_Shouldn't be too hard. We just need to go right instead of left, right?"_

"_Yeah...yeah, I think we got turned around at the plaza, I thought Charlie was saying-"_

"_JESUS CHRIST!"_

_Tucker suddenly fell backwards over a chair and brought it crashing down with him. His face was one of alarm as he looked up at the two perplexed faces staring back at him._

"_Um...no, I thought he said 'go through the market' instead of 'go AROUND the market'," Terry said. "I'm pretty sure Jesus never came into the conversation."_

"_No...there's a...a..."_

"_What?" Terry frowned as Jason went around the other side of the table to see what it had been. His eyes widened._

"_Shit...Ter, mate," he looked up at him._

_Terry slung his rifle over his shoulder and went around to see for himself. Instantly, he wished he had not._

_A body in a suit lay on the floor, the face and the back of his head completely blown away. Judging by the Desert Eagle in his hand and the spent bullet casing near-by, he had a hunch it was self-inflicted. He had added new color to the wallpaper in the red and pink color varieties, though he doubted the home owners would be happy with that. The body was bent at an odd angle, with the hand holding the magnum up towards his head (or what was left of it), the legs were bent overlapping each other, and the other hand, which was clasped over the handles of a large handbag, was resting at its side._

"_Jesus..." he repeated._

"_Looks like he did himself in..." Jason scanned the body. "It's a suit, what the hell's he doing here?"_

"_Drug dealer," declared Tucker instantly._

"_Don't be daft," snapped Terry. "Why would he have offed himself if that's what he was?"_

"_Maybe he felt guilty?"_

"_Right, he was so guilty about being a drug dealer that he pointed a bleeding fifty cal magnum at his face and pulled the trigger. Use your noggin, man, he must have gotten cornered. Maybe he stole something from the rebels or something."_

"_Whatever it was, it wasn't long ago," Jason said, picking up the casing and immediately dropping it again. "Bullet's still hot."_

"_Right,"the blonde decided. "We'll just get out of here and report it to the captain. As far as we can tell, it was a suicide, we stumbled across him while we were lost, no one can blame us for...Jace, what are you doing?"_

_Jason had grabbed the bag out of the man's hands and was undoing the clips clamping the top shut. Tucker picked his head up as Terry started towards him._

"_Mate, put it down! Are you mental?" he demanded._

"_I just want to look..." Jason opened the top and peered inside._

"_Jace, come on, it's not worth it," pleaded Tucker._

_Jason's eyes widened._

"_Lads, there's money in here," he said._

"_I've got money! I'll give you whatever you need, just put it down and let's go!"_

"_No, I mean, LOTS of money. Like, THOUSANDS."_

"_What?" Terry crossed the remainder of the distance and looked in as well. Tucker cautiously followed and peered in and immediately withdrew, terrified at seeing the large pile of cash that filled the brim of the bag._

"_Jesus CHRIST... he IS a drug dealer!" he proclaimed_

"_It's American money..." Terry picked up one of the bundles and held it gently in his hand, then dropped it back into the bag. "Where the hell did he get all this?"_

"_Who cares?" Jason looked greedily at the money. "It's ours now."_

"_No. NO! It's not!" Terry backed away, finger pointed at his friend. "You're going to put it down, we're going to walk on out of here, no one suspects a thing!"_

"_Aw, come on, mate! Look at how much there is! We could be set for life with this stuff!"_

"_Jason, we're not taking money off a BLOODY DEAD MAN! Now put it down and let's go!"_

"_No." Jason closed the bag and held it tightly by his side. "No."_

"_I'm not giving you a choice, mate, I'm TELLING you."_

_The atmosphere had changed. Tucker watched passively as his two friends glared each other down, Jason with his bag, and Terry with his hand just above the holster where his pistol lie. He had seen the two come to blows many times, but this was something different. Something was riding on this bag...their futures? Their careers? Maybe even their friendship, he could not tell. But there was a great deal riding on this bag, and whether or not it would all come crashing down depended on which way the bag was taken._

_The side door suddenly burst open, and Tucker almost blasted it with his shotgun, his nerves were so badly shot. But it was only the new guy, the one the lads had nicknamed "Tubbs". He looked out of breath, his M-16 hanging off its strap around his neck, but he sighed in relief upon the sight of them._

"_Oh, thank GOD!" he exclaimed. "I've been on my own since the ambush, I thought everyone had left me-"_

_He took a step forward and his eyes fell on the corpse. His face grew alarmed as he gave it a long stare, then he looked at all of them, one face after the other._

"_Blimey...did you do that?" he asked._

"_No, he was like that when we got here," Jason answered before Terry could. "He blew his own face off, by the looks of it."_

"_Oh..." There was a simmer of doubt on the boy's face, but he bit his tongue. "Should...we report it?"_

"_We'll do it," Jason glared at Terry. "Won't we?"_

_Tucker knew what that meant; he was using the situation to his advantage. Tubbs did not know about the money, and if he did, then they could all be in trouble for even touching the bag. As long as the rookie did not know, they could take it as though it was there's. If they dropped it, he would ask questions, and the kid was likely one that would tell the captain what color underwear he was wearing if he was allowed it. Terry's jaw was clenched and his knuckles were tightened as he realized his friend had him._

"_Yeah..." he glanced at Tubbs. "Did you see where the others went?"_

"_Um..." The kid shrugged, a sure sign that he had no clue._

"_Not to worry," Jason positioned the bag tightly under his arm and held his G-36 in his other hand. "We'll find them. I'll take point."_

_He walked out the door, looking both left and right, then going right. Tubbs followed closely behind him, grateful that someone else was leading instead of him. Terry gave Tucker a long, grave look as the two followed behind, not liking the situation one bit._

They never did report to the captain, Tucker thought now as they sat side by side, looking down at the open bag. He sat in the middle, and he looked left and right at his friends, who were staring intently at their "reward". He had no idea what the others were thinking, but his own thoughts were that this money was cursed, given their current predicament since acquiring it.

"Um..." he finally broke the silence. "Should we...should we count it again, do you think?"

"Why?" Terry asked, his eyes not moving off the cash. "It was six hundred thousand the last two times we counted, it'll be six hundred thousand the third time we count."

"Split three ways, that's two grand a person," Jason added, his eyes having a hungry look to them. "Not a bad start, eh?"

"Wait..." Tucker jumped to his feet and took a step away from the bag. "What if those guys last night were the dealer's mates? What if they were looking for the bag? This thing could be endangering the entire camp!"

"Okay," sighed Terry, grabbing the Irish lad's shoulders and seating him back down, "one, he wasn't a drug dealer. Two, even if he was, I doubt dealers have that many friends. And three, even if they do, I SERIOUSLY doubt that they have weapons of mass _sunlight_ that can annihilate an entire base. So can we move off the drug dealer theory and figure out what we're going to do with this?"

"What do you mean, what we're going to do with it?" Jason finally tore his eyes away from the money and turned to them. "We're keeping it, aren't we? We earned it."

"No, we STOLE it, and no, we're not keeping it," was the retort. "Jace, you know that that kind of money isn't going to just be written off by the U.S. government, right? That's six hundred thousand MARKED U.S. currency. They're probably looking for it."

"Wait..." Tucker jumped to his feet again, "what if those guys-"

"They weren't Americans looking for the money, Tuck, now_ sit down_," Terry again grabbed his friend's shoulders and jammed him firmly onto his backside.

"Look, Ter, mate," the Scotsman gave him a pleading look. "I need my share. Okay? It might not seem like much to you, but you remember why I've been trying to get more money, right? You know why I need it?"

Terry, unfortunately, did. Jason was planning on starting up his own beer company when he got out of the army, co-working with Archie at selling his "Essence of Helena" worldwide. He had actually drawn up a pretty intricate business plan, detailing a step-by-step outline of what he hoped to accomplish over a four-year period. He had the plan, he had the supply, and he had, certainly, the demand. The only thing he lacked, however, was the money to get the plan off the runway.

That had been the problem. As convincing as his speeches were, none of the investors he had met with seemed interested in the project, and if they were, they did not feel like funding it. So Jason had joined up for the military pay, and he went to the tables to try and get more. And even though he had scrapped up a good fortune in the last couple of months, he was still far from reaching a total that would help his investment.

"Two hundred thousand's not going to get you much either, mate," Terry noted.

"But combined with the rest of my money-"

"Your BRITISH money, I might add."

"Look, it's not a big deal, mate. If I have to make conversions either way, I'll do it. But I could really use this. I'm tapped for cash as it is, the stuff in the bank's only about a third of what I need. This money gets me the entire investment. Don't you want that?"

"No, I _do_, it's just...it's risky, man, using stolen money to front your business. If they find out where it came from, you could be in a lot of trouble."

"That's only IF they find out." Jason's recklessness and carelessness was peeking through the exterior, probably at the worst possible time.

"And besides, what happened to all the money we gave you? Can't you use that?"

"Mate, two thousand pounds doesn't give me much of an investment."

"We only gave you two thousand?" Tucker inquired curiously.

"Aye."

"Wow...we kind of suck, huh?"

"Alright, look," Terry held his hands up, trying to keep his mind clear and having trouble doing so with the talk. "With everything that's going on, Jason, man, we really don't need this kind of pressure. It's not worth a big hassle over."

"Then let's just hold on to it. Just for a little while, until we get out of here. Then we can argue about it all we want. But let's just keep hold of it. Think about what I'm saying, alright?"

Jason shot him that pleading look. That look normally did not work on Terry, but his head was already not in the right place, so everything that normally went on was turning upside down. Last night had presented him with something new, and he did not entirely know how to take it, and it was the fact that he did not know how that concerned him more than some guys in cloaks shaking sticks at them.

And truth be told, there was a part of him that wanted a share of that cash. Lord knew he had payments to make, and his dad was not getting any better on his own, poor old bugger. Tucker could care of his mum, help pay off the mortgage, because Lord knew again that the military bonus they got did not cover everything. Granted, in the grand scheme of things, two hundred grand a piece was not much. But it was something, right? And if you were hard-working and determined, you could build off it.

But if Captain Wallace found out, it would be a world of pain for all three of them...Terry inwardly groaned. There was no clear answer for them. Jason was right; it was better just to put it on hold until things settled down.

"Alright, fine," he relented. "Hide it in our stuff, we'll get back to it later. No one talks about it to anyone else. Clear on that, Tuck?"

"Aye," the Irishman's head bobbled up and down in agreement. Jason grinned again and slapped him on the arm.

Christ, he needed another drink, Terry thought as the meeting adjourned and he stepped back out of the tent. He took off for the vehicles in hopes that Archie still had the still going so he could try and forget that bloody argument.

* * *

"OW! Bloody hell!"

Finn looked up from his book as Sully slid out from under the Humvee, clutching his now-bleeding finger and looking like he was about to kick the Queen's puppy.

"You alright, mate?" he called out.

"The bleeding thing cut me..." Sully winced as he pressed his cut finger against the palm of his other hand. "Oh, son of a BITCH, it hurts."

Owen snickered into his soup bowl as Finn just smiled and returned to his book. Neither were unnoticed by their mechanic friend, but he ignored them as he tried to get over the nipping pain the cut was giving him.

"Want a bandage?" Owen asked.

"No, bleeding will stop in a bit..." Sully wrapped his finger in the hem of his shirt and waited for the pain to subside. It was not substantial, it just stung worse than anything else.

"Sure you don't want to take a break? You've been at it all day," said Finn, not glancing up from his book.

"If I don't get it fixed, we don't get home," was the reply, as he placed his toolbox on top of the hood of the vehicle. "And besides, I like working on the rides. It helps mellow me out."

Sully had been a mechanic even before his time in the service, and he claimed to have a special bond with anything that could be driven. Finn had certainly witnessed this bond several times before, whenever a Humvee stalled or just did not feel like working. It seemed like most times all he had to do was talk to them soothingly and the thing was fixed. His biggest attachment was to the flatbed truck he had lovingly named "Gertrude"; the relationship between it and him was almost like that he would have with a real woman, minus the sexual activities.

Finn had never really understood the love himself. His love was directed towards his girlfriend and the Big Man Upstairs. Material objects like cars had never really concerned him much; he was a simple man by nature, as he had always been brought up to be in such a family.

"You like cars, huh, mate?" he asked him.

"Not so much like cars as I like fixing them up and driving them," Sully explained, taking the tools off the hood so he could open it and check the engine. "There's something soothing about taping up a busted oil tank or patching up the fan belt or even fixing on a new tire. You can forget about the real world for an hour or so, just get lost in your game."

"That sounds really weird, mate." Owen said, sipping his soup.

"You can laugh at me all you want," the mechanic closed the hood and patted it gently, "but if the shit hits the fan, there's nowhere I'd rather be than behind the wheel of my truck. She takes good care of you."

"You say so," Finn shot Owen a look that thought the man bonkers, allowing his friend to snicker a little bit.

He reached into his pocket and placed the picture of his girlfriend on top of the Bible and set them both down on top of a little sand mound he had built. He smiled at the picture. Christine was a very pretty girl, blonde hair, blue eyes, a smile to die for. She had been a very popular young woman in school, loved by all the boys and envied by most of the girls, but her final choice of the litter had been surprising. Hundreds of handsome lads in their school and she went and picked the big-boned God-worshiping boy that people liked to poke fun of. If that was not enough to convince him that God rewarded those who were faithful, he did not know what would be.

When he got back, Finn planned to ask her to marry him. He had the ring picked out and paid for, and kept it around his neck until he was in a safe enough spot to put it back into a box, all proper like. It was the one thought that kept him going, especially now.

He glanced over at Owen, who was eying the picture and then looking away with a sudden look of depression on his face. He understood full well why. Finn had found the woman in his life; Owen had not. To date, the only woman that had ever loved him was his mother, or another relative. At times, it seemed too unfair; both were big men, both had been picked on in school for one thing or another, and yet it was Finn that had gotten lucky. It was not that Owen did not try, he just never found the right women to pursue anything with. Finn thought it was because God was on his side; he wished many a time that He would be on Owen's side as well.

He crossed himself with his right hand and brought his hands together.

"Oh Lord," he began.

"Oh _Lord_," Sully groaned turning back to him with a look of annoyance. "What are you doing?"

"Saying a prayer."

"Yeah, well, do me a favor, will you?"

"What?" Finn asked with a knowing smile.

"Knock it off."

This was a common conversation between them whenever Finn prayed. Sully was fine with it, as long as, in his mind, he kept it to himself. He did not believe in God; the thought of an invisible man watching them from space was a loony story, in his mind. His family had been partly religious, but as long as he had been able to think for himself, he declared himself atheist. If God existed, and He was loving as they said, then in his mind, it should not matter anyway.

Finn usually ignored him. He had been devout his entire life, so at this stage, there was very little that could shake his faith. He trusted in the Lord; he believed that everything that happened was a result of His plan. He also believed that, if the time came, God would get him-all of them-home.

"Dear Lord," he continued, ignoring Sully's second groan. "As the sun sets this day, we thank You for guiding us through last night and this day. And we ask that You continue to look after us as we prepare to face the unknown, a force that defies Your work. Let us go forth with Your guidance, and through Your judgment, let us survive long enough to be able to go home to those who love us, where we can know peace. Help us, O Lord, to maintain the peace and prevail against Satan's workers, so that we may see our families again. Amen."

"Amen..." Owen agreed, raising his glass in toast and then took a drink.

Finn watched as the sun lowered over the sand dunes, hoping that his prayer had been heard and would be answered.

And, as he thought again of the people lost the night before, he hoped that his prayer would be answered sooner rather than later.

* * *

I went with American money for the trio because, again, I am woefully unintelligent of how the systems of the United Kingdom works. I have a vague idea, but not enough of one. This is just a side-plot, but by its end it'll be an entertaining one.

With that in mind, one would wonder why I wouldn't just have the characters be American instead of British. Well, the answer there is simple: I'd rather have British characters.

Slow chapter. The first couple of chapters after this will be a little slow, but the more it goes, the more interesting things get. I promise that.

And yeah, that's it. Later.


	6. Personal Discoveries

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** I do apologize that this was later than the two-month deadline. I ran into a bit of a rut with this chapter. I'm pretty satisfied with it now, but do let me know what you think, aye?

I think it's fitting to post a chapter for a war story on June 6th, wouldn't you say?

* * *

Personal Discoveries

The next morning, the entire camp was woken up by someone screaming Bloody Mary. The screams snapped Danny out of his slumber; he sat up with a jerk, going from completely unconscious to completely awake. Next to him, Matthews picked his head up, eyes open only a squint.

"The hell's going on?" he asked, his tired voice slowly coming to wake.

Danny stuck his head out of the tent to see Tucker frantically running and spinning around, wearing just a T-shirt and his boxers, waving his hands in the air and looking like someone just cut his foot off. Jason and Terry were poking their heads out from their tent, looking on with a mixed look of fascination and confusion as their friend danced like the Devil was chasing him.

"_Get it off me! Get it off me! Jesus Christ, get it off_!" he cried out.

Danny looked all over him, but could not see anything attached to him. He had probably just woken up from a dream or something, that made more sense. He needed to calm down before he gave away their position to any scouts sneaking around near-by.

Tucker flailed around for almost another whole minute before Sergeant Ryan finally tackled him to the ground. He placed both legs on either side of his chest and planted himself right on the man's body, pinning him to the ground. The platoon sergeant's face was one of red-faced annoyance.

"Get a grip, man! What's wrong with you?" he demanded.

"_It's down my pants! Get it off_!" sobbed Tucker, looking like he was in discomfort.

Ryan got up and pulled the Irishman's boxers out to get a look. Every other man present looked on in discomfort as the sergeant felt around before he suddenly stopped, sighed and glared at the private.

"Oh for Christ's sakes, you big baby," he spat at him. "It's only a leech."

"ONLY a leech?" Tucker's head shot up, looking incredulous. "I'm lucky my balls are still attached! Get it off!"

Ryan sighed again, reached in, and then returned with the leech in between its fingers. It was such a tiny, thin little thing...Danny could see that it could not have gotten much blood off of the scrawny lad, or that it had even been there for very long. Tucker had probably just woken up, reached in for some Fireman Time, and found the thing there. Anyone would have panicked.

That did not mean he was not going to catch some flack for it.

"Doc might want to add this to his collection," pondered the platoon sergeant. He stood up, helped the private to his feet, and placed the leech in his hand. "Take this to the medical tent, give this to Doc, and get yourself checked out."

Tucker nodded glumly, carefully taking the leech and holding it by the end between his thumb and index finger and walking towards the medical tent, doing his best to ignore the laughs and jokes that were thrown his way ("Squeezed a bit too hard, eh luv?" "What's the matter, Tuck? Not your type?" "Does she have a sister? Is she single?"). Jason and Terry gave each other looks, shook their heads, and retreated back into their tents to put proper clothes on.

Danny laughed as he pulled his pants on and then stepped out of the tent, Matthews right behind him. ,All around them, the rest of the company was up and walking around, preparing breakfast, cleaning their weapons, taking a "whore's bath" and shooting the shit. At first glance, he would have almost believed they were back at the base. Even though he knew they were not, the thought brought a smile to his lips.

The smile was broken as Ryan's voice brought him firmly grounded again.

"Alright, patrol and sentry details, gents. Morrison, you're taking a patrol to the west. You've got four men plan your route and see if you can find anything. I want a report by the end of the day, so don't get lost."

"I'll take...O'Malley, Smith, Matthews, and...throw in McIntyre too," Morrison decided on the spot; one machine-gunner, one point man, one rear guard, and one support gunner. An ideal patrol set up, one that should be able to handle any ordinary enemy.

Matthews groaned and retreated back into the tent to grab his SAW. Danny waited for the orders that were sure to come his way. In a combat zone, you never got enough time to just sit around; there was always something to do.

"Alright, Armstrong, you and Marek are on OP 3. Take one of the walkies and get out there."

Danny groaned quietly and glanced over to where Marek was standing, bare-chested, pouring water from his canteen all over him and whistling old children's tunes as he did. Great, another day on outpost with the man who talked to the sky. How did this always end up happening to him?

"Armstrong! Get moving!" Ryan's voice sounded like his former drill sergeant's- loud, demanding, and full of anger used to inflict pain onto others if they refused to answer on the spot. Danny knew better, from experience, what would happen if he did not grab his weapon and report to his station. Grumbling under his breath, he grabbed his MP-5 and backpack and hiked over to OP 3.

He heard footsteps hurrying after him, but did not turn to look back. As it turned out, it was not necessary, as Marek caught up to his side, his shirt on now, pack in one hand and M-4 in the other, with that classic Marek smile on his face.

"Together again, aye partner?" he asked.

Danny just nodded, thinking to ask God to just put him out of misery, but deciding against it when he remembered that anything he said to God would probably be sent back to the cause of his annoyance.

The two _were_ chummy, after all.

* * *

Grimes was making sure the sergeant major's lapels were secured nicely on his collar as Price came up with his L-85 in his hands. He watched as his Irish friend fumbled with the one on the right collar, and chuckled slightly when he accidentally pricked his finger on the pin.

"Never thought I would see the day, Franky," he said, coming out of his spot and sitting down next to his friend.

"Neither did I," grumbled the newly promoted Grimes, finishing the job and turning the top half of his body to face Price. "How do I look?"

"Like the Company Sergeant Major, mate."

The words, instead of boosting his confidence, just made him feel even more nervous. Company Sergeant Major. He had been a simple sergeant barely twenty-four hours ago, and now he was THE sergeant. Everything that came from the enlisted men to the officers were voiced through him, and vice versa. The lives of the enlisted men had always weighed heavily on the noncoms, but it weighed doubly so on the sergeant major; that was the thing that scared him the most.

"I'm not cut out for this, Eddie," he admitted.

"You're more qualified that the rest of us."

"Even you?"

"I don't want it. What with the shortage we have on noncoms, we need all the buck sergeants we can hold on to. Besides, I work better with smaller groups than the bigger picture."

"Yeah, well, there's three other possibilities Captain could pick. I mean, the staff sergeants are more suited for promotion over me, right? What about Ryan?"

Price laughed. "That would bode over well with the men. Place the one who yells and barks orders every chance he gets in a rather angry voice in charge of all the enlisted men, that's a recipe for disaster right there."

"Pratt?"

"Good lad, but I'm not sure he's all there half the time. You know how he gets, he's always too mellow. Nothing wrong with it, but I just don't think anything really fazes him, and we need someone who has his head fully in the game."

The possibilities were running thin, and Grimes was not liking it too much. Because the less options there were, the more sure he was that he was stuck doing this.

"Carter, then," he finalized.

His friend shrugged. "He's the only real choice. John's got all his shit together, and he's a good, fair leader. I think, though, that Captain wants to keep him as a staff sergeant. He wants at least one platoon sergeant to have a clear head and an edge to keep him on his toes."

That was his three options, and now he knew why he had been chosen; because, in Captain Wallace's eyes, there had been no one else able or willing to take on the job. He knew there was a shortage of soldiers in their company, but he did not realize that things were so bad that he was the only decent candidate for this assignment.

"Franky, you've been a buck sergeant for ten years, you should have been promoted long before now," Price pointed out. "I don't see why this is such a big deal-"

"Because I don't feel ready for it! I mean, I have to appeal to the officers, I have to appeal to the men, and those are two very conflicting sides to have to get to like you. And then there's combat, I have to be in charge of all the enlisted, and if I screw up men die, and I'm barely able to keep composure when a guy in my squad dies, never mind the whole company-"

"Mate," Price grabbed Grimes' shoulder and squeezed firmly. "You need to just keep your head. You know these men, they know you. Nothing's changed there. You need to remember that you've worked personally with these men, you know who they are, where they come from. That will help you more than you know. As for leading them, you've proven you're a good squad leader. Your job is to be there for the men. Do that, and you'll do fine."

"You sure?" Worry still clouded Grimes' mind. He had come from a very laid back family that had never taken well to official leadership roles, and it was in his nature to question himself at every turn.

"Positive." Price stood up. "I've got to get back to the men. Keep your head up, alright?"

Grimes just nodded and watched his friend take off and wished that he had the job instead. Price had a cooler head than him, and a better command structure. Grimes was more laid back, though he still maintained efficiency. The guys thought he was cool, but command sergeant was a different story. He would have to up the anti on his performance.

And in their current predicament, the sooner he did that, the better.

* * *

Observation post, or OP as the men simply referred to it as, was a pit on the edge of their camp where men kept on lookout for signs of enemy activity. The sergeants picked two men, gave them a pair of binoculars, and placed them on one end of the compound to stand watch. It was always two men, sometimes three, sometimes four depending on the company size, but ALWAYS two. With two, there was more than one pair of eyes watching, and open conversation to make sure that both were seeing the exact same thing. They had a walkie talkie, so that if something WAS coming, they could give the base warning. That way, if they by chance did not make it, the rest of the company would have a fighting chance.

But it could be boring, as Danny knew all too well, sitting in that pit with Marek underneath the makeshift tent they had made out of a blanket and sticks. Because more often than not, nothing ever happened, and when that was the case, it was just two guys stuck in a sweltering hot foxhole for twelve hours at a time, with limited provisions, and if the two were not very close friends then it could make for awkward situations.

It seemed like every ten or fifteen minutes, Marek would randomly look up and shout something up to the sky, then pause for a few seconds, then laugh or nod and possibly relate something back to his partner in the hole. Every time he paused after his initial shout, Danny would cock his ear to see if he could possibly hear something, and every single time, it came up with nothing. Every single time, he felt silly for even thinking it. If God wanted to talk to him, he supposed He would do it whenever He felt like talking.

There was something going on in Marek's head, he decided. He had something figured out that the rest of them did not. And quite frankly, for him at least, it was something he was not sure was worth figuring out.

"What, Father?" Marek called out, for the fourth or fifth time that hour. Again, out of habit, Danny's ear perked up to see if he could possibly hear someone talking, but he barely had time to really listen when the other man in the hole shouted, "Alright, I'll ask him."

He turned his head to his partner. "If I stick my neck out for you, will you do the same for me?"

Danny frowned. "What?"

"If I risk my life for you, would you do likewise for me? Yes or no?"

"Um...yeah, sure, mate. No problem."

He did not know how exactly he was supposed to respond to that. Obviously he would watch his back, he may not like him very much, but he would not just let something bad happen. One, it was not his nature to do that, and two, Captain Wallace would chew his ass out to tobacco juice if he ever found out one of his men had slept on the job and had gotten another one killed. Besides, Marek was a good soldier, and they needed as many of those as they had.

Marek seemed satisfied by the answer, as he settled back into his pit and brought his canteen to his lips for a drink. Already the sun was high in the sky, and its rays felt like someone was raining fire down on them, even with their overhead canopy. Danny felt like he was going to roast alive; he already had a bad sunburn on his face from yesterday, and that was going to be a real bitch when it healed.

And it was not even noon yet.

This was going to be a very long day.

* * *

Grimes walked around camp with his rifle slung over his shoulder, trying his best to bid hello to the men and ignore the strange stares he was receiving. Price had said that this would be the reaction to his promotion, but still, he was not used to this. He wondered if he ever would be. Probably. But it was still unnerving.

He approached the back of the medical truck, where Archie again had the still up and running. Terry, Jason, and Tucker were the usual buyers, and the four were sitting, laughing and drinking as the sergeant made his approach over.

Terry saw him first, and the smile slipped from his face, even as Grimes smiled back. He nudged his head for the others to see, and they too straightened up as the new company sergeant brought himself down to their level.

"Hey, lads," said Grimes cheerfully, trying to ignore the awkwardness that they were emulating. "Having a good morning?"

"Aye, Sergeant," they all mumbled, trying to avoid eye contact.

"Tuck, what did Doc say? Everything working alright down there?" he joked, nudging the Irish private's arm.

Tucker looked around at his friends, unsure of what to do. They just stared at their drinks, not looking up, not speaking, not giving him the guidance he needed.

"Um..." He pushed his glasses further up onto his nose and gave the sergeant a weak smile. "Doc says everything's working fine. The leech, um...wasn't on long enough to do any damage. I've got to take some medicine, you know, to prevent infection, but otherwise I'm okay."

"Good..." Now Grimes was starting to get annoyed. It was one thing for his men to stare because of his promotion, but these were his lads; his friends. There was no reason why they should be treating him this way. But as he was about to open his mouth to say so, Terry spoke first.

"So I suppose we're going to get busted for drinking, huh?" he asked, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

"What?" The left corner of Grimes' mouth tugged into a half-smirk. "Come on, you know Wallace doesn't care if you guys have some of Archie's brew-"

"Yeah, but Hunter does," Jason pointed out.

"Well, yeah, when does he ever let up? But I know you guys, you won't get out of control."

They shifted again, and this time, Grimes was fed up with it. "Well, spit it out, will you? If you have a problem with me, just say it instead of acting like a bunch of twats!"

Terry and Jason exchanged glances. Tucker finally looked up and spoke.

"It's not you, Franky, it's just...well, you're the top sergeant now, y'know?"

"What does that have to do with anything-?"

"What Tucker's trying to say," Terry piped up, "is that you're a little too close to the officer pool for our liking."

"Oh, come off it," Grimes stood up. "Guys, it's ME. Franky. Yeah, I'm higher up on the chain, but that doesn't change me. I'm still the same guy you've worked with for two years! I'm still me!"

"We know, mate," Archie tried to calm him down with. "We know you're you. But you're you with...well, authority, I suppose. And that does change things."

He just gaped at them. Was being sergeant major THAT big of a difference for them? He had known he would have to gain the respect of the men in a different way, but he had not realized he would have to start completely from scratch.

Jason saw the look he gave them and sighed.

"It's nothing against you, mate," he said. "But if Hunter comes down on top of us, whose side would you choose? His or ours?"

Those words struck him, and it was the sort of dilemma he had been arguing over in his head. It was a question he still did not have an answer to. He had an obligation to be loyal to the officers over anything, but these were his friends, and he had to be loyal to them too. It was the conflicting sides; neither side was a clear winner.

They took his silence for an answer. "I thought so," said Jason, returning to his drink. Tucker and Archie gave the sergeant feeble smiles before going back to their conversation.

It was if he did not even exist as a person now, Grimes realized bitterly as he backed away from the group. He only existed as their commanding sergeant. It was like the rest of it did not even matter.

Price had said that it would take time, but eventually, things would right themselves out and things would return to normal. But he failed to see how that could be, after that scene, that everything could be right again.

* * *

It was one, maybe two in the afternoon now. Danny and Marek did nothing but eat, read, and sit around, eyes scouring the distance for any signs of life, be it friend or foe. Nothing showed up, though, and it was welcoming to them. They had had enough surprise guests for a while.

It was around two thirty when Danny finally asked the question he had wanted to know for a while:

"When did it all start, anyway?"

"When did what start?" asked Marek, eating from his can of tuna.

"You know, the whole talking to the Almighty thing. Shouting up to the sky every few minutes and then delivering some message from high above."

It was the talk of the camp, and had been for many months. Marek pondered the question, placed down his tuna, and looked up at the sky as if asking God a question of his own. Danny once again found himself staring upwards as well, out of habit, seeing if maybe he could hear something as well. Then Marek lowered his head back down and looked over at him

"Well, you know I was doing missionary work in Africa," he began, and his partner nodded in confirmation. "At one point at the end of my first tour, I was stationed in the Congo, helping out a little town...well, more a circle of shacks and straw huts. This was about four or five years ago, I was barely even twenty. And...well, I don't think I have to tell you that the Congo is not exactly the friendliest place in Africa-"

"Aye," replied Danny grimly. How could anyone not know how bad it was there. Nazi Germany at the end of World War II did not look as bad as the Congo was looking currently.

"Alright, well...it was my third week there, and we were getting word that a guerrilla force was making its way north, and would be passing through our encampment. Now, this was a settlement that had no soldiers, no weapons, no anything other than a church and about fifty children aging anywhere between two and thirteen. We have absolutely nothing that would make them want to attack us. But they were coming our way anyway.

"It was around midnight when they showed up, and...things got nuts. There was shooting and rockets being fired...one RPG went right into the infirmary, we had elderly and sick children in there...they were all blown to pieces. Around one in the morning, soldiers from the Congo Republican military force came to fight them off and it was them on one side and guerrillas on the other and we were sandwiched right in the middle...horrible fighting. About sixty-five percent of the village was wiped out that night, and we lost more to gunshot wounds and infections in the days that followed..."

Danny had heard horrible stories of the conditions in the Congo. If you were not wounded by shrapnel or had succumbed to malaria or pneumonia, you were considered lucky. It was a miracle that Marek had survived that.

"I was stuck in this little hole with a four-year-old, and there was machine-gun fire and rockets going off anywhere, and I swear, I had never been more terrified...I was clutching that child like he was my own, he was crying and screaming and I was biting down on the inside of my cheek to keep from doing the same. The hole was so...muddy, and wet, it had rained during the day, so we were sitting in soaking wet murk. At one point, a mortar round landed right in front of our hole, a dud, and we just stared at it for five minutes, waiting for it to go off and when it didn't we were right back where we had been."

He shook his head clear. The memories had been a cloud hanging over him for a long time, long after he had finally gotten over it and moved on. Even now, years later, that night was still vivid in his mind. Though he and that boy had survived, neither one had emerged completely unscathed, at least, not mentally.

"So what happened?" Danny was surprised to find that the story intrigued him. Normally he tried to avoid Marek as much as possible, but now, hearing this tale, he wanted to know more.

Marek smiled.

"Right as I thought we were finished...as the bombing reached the most furious...I heard this voice call to me. It rang out louder than the artillery and the rockets and the bullets, and I couldn't tell where it could have been coming from, maybe a blow horn or something...Then I heard it again, and I could just see...there was no ray of light or angel descending from heaven...just His voice, calling down to me."

"And...what did he say?"

He turned to his comrade, smirk still dancing on his face.

"He said, 'I've got plans for you, lad, so don't you fucking die on me or I'll really be up shit creek without a paddle.'"

For some reason- maybe it was the way Marek had said it, maybe it was the tone, or maybe it was just picturing God saying something like that- Danny found this insanely hilarious, and he burst out laughing. He laughed hard, rolling against the walls of the pit, laughing so hard that he had to clutch his sides as they began to hurt. He laughed so hard that eventually tears streamed down his face. Marek chuckled at the reaction his story had received.

"Oh...oh my God...Oh..." Danny sat up, wiping his eyes and letting out one last chuckle that doubled as a sigh. "That's rich, mate. That's rich."

"And it's entirely true. You don't have to believe me."

That sobered him up. Marek was giving him a hard look now, and Danny felt the humor in the situation die almost instantly.

"The Lord has plans for me. He guided me and that boy out of that ditch and kept us safe," he continued. "They say in order to speak to an equal, an Irishman must talk to God, but it's more than that. It's...I don't know how to properly explain it...it's like when you're a kid, and you've just fallen and scraped your knee, and you're crying and you're all alone, and then suddenly your father shows up and comforts you. Like that.

"I know you lads think I'm off my rocker-"

"What? No, mate, it's not like that-"

"Danny, mate, I'm not stupid. I know everyone talks about me. And you know what? It never bothers me. I've got the Father on my side, our side, and He talks to me every day. He lets me know I'm not alone. He talks to me and I don't feel afraid anymore, because He's right there with me."

It was a eye-opening revelation that was made, Danny realized as he thought about the conversation for the rest of their lookout. Marek had always shown a considerable amount of courage during fights, and he always felt it was due to his psychosis with the God thing...but that was not entirely it, was it? The Lord did work in mysterious ways, if Finn's ramblings were to be taken seriously. Maybe someone really had spoken to him in that hole, as crazy as it sounded. Maybe someone was looking out for him, and hopefully all of them, for that matter.

Danny recalled when his uncle died, a man of the cloth, dying of a tumor at only forty-five. He remembered the funeral; almost half the town had shown up to pay their respects. He remembered the priest going on about how he was a servant of God and how he was now going to be taken care of by Him for the rest of eternity...but how could that be, Danny remembered thinking, when He had let him die at forty-fucking-five of a damn tumor? Why could He not have been watching out for him on earth? Was the purpose of life to just be ignored by Him until He decided to take them to Heaven or send them to Hell?

That had not made any sense to him at the time, but Marek's talk had brought those thoughts back. Did God watch out for them? If so, did He choose who He appeared to, or was it just those in most desperate need? Or was there something about Marek, about the plight he was in, that made Him decide how to choose His next disciple?

Maybe he had been wrong about Marek. He was nuttier than a box of frogs, but just because he spoke to the sky did not make him any less human than the next man, did it? No, he thought, it did not. Marek was still one of them, and a damn good one at that. And if some divine power was indeed on his side, then maybe getting on his good side would be beneficial to the rest of the company, and to himself.

The sun was on the sinking side of the sky, not quite down enough to cause the sky to begin its change of color but enough so that the sun was out of their faces and that was greatly appreciated. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Twix bar. He took one piece and bit half of it off, then took the other piece and passed it to his partner, who took it gratefully.

* * *

"Alright," Grimes reported, looking at the map. "Captain say that the French have the left flank area locked tight, and the Russians have the right flank secured. Weber and Riley have a nice dugout to our rear. No defenses have reported any troubles thus far. Anything from us?"

"Morrison's patrol should be coming back soon. We'll know for sure then. Otherwise, you'd never know anyone was after us," Pratt replied.

Grimes felt oddly out of place, being in a noncom meeting with Pratt, Ryan, and Carter. Weirder still to be heading the meeting, but there he was. For what it was worth, none of the staff sergeants looked at him with envious or resentful eyes at him having moved up. He had to constantly remind himself that these men were the leaders of the company, not the followers; they had jobs to do, and they could not afford to let any personal strife, however big or however small, get in the way of that.

He glanced over again at where Archie's group was situated, where they were once again ordering a round of homemade swill, probably their third. The sight of it still made him feel nauseous. After he was done with duties as a regular sergeant, he used to stop by Archie's tent and grab a drink himself, with no problems other than the occasional lecture from Evansmann. He had always considered himself one of the guys; now he felt like an outsider.

Ryan follwed his friend's gaze to the group and then looked over at Carter, who stood straight with his arms folded and was shaking his head. He bent over the makeshift table.

"Grimesy," he called, re-grasping the sergeant major's attention. "Do you know the meaning of what the senior noncoms like to call, 'The Jester Sergeant?'"

"Um...no-"

"It's a term we give to an officer or sergeant that cares more about making and keeping friends and keeping them all pleased than he does doing his job. And that's a dangerous person to have around, and you know why? Because he doesn't lead efficiently, and when men start getting killed, he takes it to heart and head, and then he makes MORE mistakes, and MORE lives are lost, wash, rinse, repeat. And you cannot let that happen to you."

"Yeah, mate, it's not a good choice for you," Carter added. "These men are going to be looking to you to LEAD them, not necessarily be their friend. You can be on their side or you can be on the officer's side, but one way or another, you've got to show them who wears the pants in this relationship."

"I know, I know...it's just the adjustment, you know? I'll be fine..."

"It'll work out, mate," Pratt walked over and patted his back. "You just do your job, make sure we all do ours, and your friends- your REAL friends- will always have your back."

Grimes smiled and nodded. These guys knew how to keep that line straight between professional and friendship. He would have to learn from them if he was going to do the same.

"And just _what_ is going on over here?" A voice suddenly rang out, causing all four of their heads to turn.

"Oh, shit," Carter groaned, eyes closing.

Hunter had finally caught on to Archie's business. The four enlisted men immediately jumped to their feet, hiding their cups behind their backs but the shocked, guilty looks on their faces gave them away to the lieutenant, who had probably been laying in wait for this opportunity to snag them.

Grimes looked over at Ryan, who nodded, then he turned and made his way over. Knowing Hunter, he was probably going to be needed.

"Just, uh...sitting out on this wonderful day, Lieutenant," Archie said, trying to keep his smile on but losing. Hunter was the only officer he could never win with. The man had a personal vendetta against him, for reasons unknown but Archie assumed it was because of his background. His skin.

"I thought I told you before, Private Simmons, that I will not tolerate you getting soldiers under the influence with your swill. ESPECIALLY when they're on duty," said Hunter, his eyes fixated on the medical bus driver.

"Well, technically, sir, we're not on a specific job today, so we figured-"

"Zip it, Ross. I'm not interested in semantics."

Grimes had an idea of what would happen if Hunter had his way. Archie would get written up, the still would be destroyed, and they would be in a world of trouble. Morale would plummet like a hawk going for its prey. It was true that Wallace never minded if they were off-duty, but technically, even if they had not been given anything to do for the day, they were still on-duty. And Hunter had significant influence. He could inflict punishment however he saw fit, and out here who would argue against him? Granted, in a combat zone, the punishment would have to wait until they got back to safe zone, but that would hang over him for the remainder of their journey, however long that would be.

"I will not have soldiers drinking when we are in the middle of a crisis," the lieutenant stated, the volume of his voice raised more for his own benefit than theirs; he loved to hear himself talk. "What if we were attacked right now, and four men are too intoxicated to handle their rifles properly? They would endanger both themselves and the rest of the company. I will not allow that."

"If you're going to bust Archie, sir, you can bust us too," said Terry, as he and Jason took a step forward to protect their friend. "It was our idea. We deserve to get flack for it too."

Tucker took a step to join them, nodding despite his obvious terror. Soldiers drinking on duty was a serious offense, but betraying their own was, in a personal sense, even more so. Archie was their supplier, but he was also their friend, and if he had to go down for this, then they went down with them.

The problem with Hunter, though, was that it did not matter to him. The man was an enemy of the people, and had no respect from anyone. Not that he cared.

"Alright, then." He turned to Grimes. "Remove this object, dispose of it, then search their tents to make sure they don't have anything else."

Grimes saw Terry, Tucker, and Jason exchange alarmed glances, then look at him with almost desperate pleading looks that told him instantly that they had something in their tent that they did not want Hunter to have. Whether it was alcohol, or it was something else, they were carrying something that they were not supposed to be carrying, and they would be in one sticky mess if it ever got discovered.

_Think, Grimesy_...it suddenly occurred to him that they would only get in trouble if they were legitimately intoxicated. If a soldier drank, but could still function, then it would not be a problem, right? Jason and Terry were known throughout the camp for their ability to hold their alcohol as though it were water. Tucker had had problems early on, but he was starting to get the hang of it as well. Archie rarely ever drank his own stuff, and even when he did, he was immune to its effects.

So, if he could just prove that they were still above the influence, then they should be okay.

In theory.

"Milburn, Stacker, and Ross, fall in line," he ordered, and was surprised at how calm he felt saying it; it was like he completely believed his theory, even though he really did not.

"Walk in a straight line," he told them, and they placed their hands behind their heads and walked in a straight line, one foot in front of the other. Tucker made a quick fumble, but it was so slight and was cleaned up so quickly that Grimes barely noticed, and he was certain Hunter had not seen a thing, as his face did not change expression.

"Alright, good. Now sing the British Anthem." They should know this one, even if two hailed from Ireland and Scotland.

The three sang together, off-pitch and at different volumes, but they sang like that when they were sober as well and everybody knew that. But they all, as far as he could tell, got all the words right. This one was more of a personal test of his; he had learned it from his dad, who always made his brother- Franky's uncle- recite the entire anthem as teenagers whenever the latter came home drunk.

As far as he knew, Terry was the only one who fumbled, but Grimes expected as much from him. So far, two out of three. But now it was the final test. If they passed this, they would all be in the clear.

He took Terry's G-3 and handed it to Tucker. He saw Hunter raise an eyebrow, but he tried his best to ignore it. Terry's rifle was more accurate than Tucker's shotgun, and the lad was the best choice of the three to prove the point he was trying to make. If Tucker passed, then they all passed.

He grabbed one of their cups and went and placed it about three hundred and fifty meters away on a stack of ammo boxes. The G-3A-3 was good at four hundred meters, and the iron sights by themselves were fairly accurate, good for Terry, who preferred them over a scope or a sight.

"Hit the can," he ordered.

Tucker gulped. He was an okay shot, nowhere near as bad as Doc at any rate, but being put on the spot always made him nervous. Grimes had faith in him, though, and that would have to be enough.

The Irishman took the rifle and stood with his back straight, standing so that his left side was facing the target. He slowly brought the rifle up and rested the stock comfortably against his shoulder, the sights aimed for the tin cup. He squinted his right eye and his left eye trained the sights so that they were dead on. He took a deep breath, made sure the aim was right on, and finally pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed off the sand, and everyone else in camp that had no idea what was going on immediately jumped and hit the ground, which was common for when they were under attack. When no more shots fired, a couple of the men got up and cautiously began proceeding to where they heard the shot being fired. Their anxiety quickly turned to skepticism when they saw the unscheduled target practice, looked around at each other, shrugged, and went about their regular business.

Grimes went over to the counter and picked up the knocked over can. When he examined it, he almost threw his fists in the air and did an Irish dance. The bullet had passed right through the center of the cup, in one end and out the other, leaving a neat round hole. Bad news, the cup would probably not be used for drinking anymore. Good news, this was probably the best shot Tucker had ever made.

He walked back over to them and showed them the hole. He saw the trio's faces immediately light up, and saw Hunter's brow furrowed even harder. His smile widened. He had won.

"Well, Lieutenant," he said, placing the cup in the officer's had. "It looks to me like these soldiers are still functioning fine. They have full control of motor functions and speech, movement is straight and even, their aiming is unaffected. I don't think there's any reason to punish them, other than to give them a warning and cut them off for the day before it gets any worse. That sounds reasonable, right, Private Simmons?"

"Aye," Archie nodded, his face with a look of wonder on it. Grimes had never taken charge like this before, and certainly not against an officer.

Hunter looked like he had just swallowed sour milk as he glared at the sergeant major. For some reason, Grimes did not feel like he was doing wrong. He had protected four particularly good soldiers, had proved that they were still perfectly capable of fighting. Wallace would take the cup as proof of that. The lieutenant was just angry that he had got in the way of his disciplinary action, but if it kept his people from getting into any worse trouble, then it was fine by Grimes.

"Very well, Sergeant," he said. "You made your point. Carry on." And that was it. Hunter knew he had lost, and so he was leaving before he did anything else.

Grimes turned to the men, all of whom looked at him with shock, awe, and gratitude. He smiled at them, nodded, and turned to leave when Terry called out to him.

"Oye, Sarge," he called. "When you off duty?"

"Probably not going to be," replied Grimes, turning back to them. "I'm top sergeant now, remember?"

"Well, we'll sneak you over a cup later," Jason stated. "Take it as a thank you."

The sergeant smiled. Everything was right in the world again. His confidence improved greatly as he finally began to believe that he could do this job just fine. He could find the balance between men and officer and still be close to the guys. Hunter may not be on his side, but when was he ever? As long as the men were on his side, he could find a way.

He had to remember that Price was a lot smarter than he was. The man had been right, after all.

From their position around the mapping crate, the three platoon sergeants watched the exchange commence. As Grimes walked off, Carter turned to Ryan.

"Think he's good?" he asked.

Ryan nodded, cracking a toothy grin. "I think he'll do just fine."

"He's a natural, aye?" Pratt replied, looking between the two.

"Wouldn't go that far, but he's getting his shit together."

"Right." Ryan turned back to the map. "Let's get back to our work."

The sergeants commanded the respect of the men, probably more so than the officers. Those who had been in the job longest were considered gods. But there was always a risk when someone stepped into that gap between enlisted and officer, and so everyone tiptoed lightly around it, to see how it would play out. Sometimes, it went poorly. But with the proper coaxing and guidance, the individual could go on to be just the sort of leader the men needed.

* * *

Danny sat down on his crate by the fire and watched as Morrison's patrol returned to camp. Moments later, Matthews came over and sat down next to him, his SAW placed down gently and his pack dropped like a sack of rocks. He lay back against it and let out a groan, closing his eyes.

"Did you find anything?" asked Danny, as he placed a marshmallow on a stick and held it over the fire.

"Nothing," came the reply. "Just sand, sand, and a little poppy seed patch. Someone was growing opium, though shits if I know what happened to the owner. Maybe he split during the fighting. Otherwise, boring just about describes it."

"Well, that's the best kind of patrol, the boring ones."

"I suppose. But it still sucked the big one." Matthews cracked an eye open. "How was OP with Marek? Did he drive you insane?"

Danny looked over to where Marek was sitting by himself, eating silently. The thoughts that were stirred during their conversation were still very much fresh in his mind. It was not so much the talking to God that he respected now, it was just the faith that he put into that relationship. His mother had told him once when he was little- maybe around the time his uncle had died?- that it took real courage to have faith in dark times. Marek had faith all the time; Danny had to wonder how much courage that took.

"Not really," he said. "We talked. I asked about the God thing, when it started for him and all that. It opened my eyes a bit; made me realize what he really was."

"...Psychotic?"

He laughed. "Human."

"Well, shit, man." Matthews sat up. "Don't tell me YOU'RE going to start yelling at the clouds now."

"No, but I'll do something else." Danny looked back over. "Oye, Marek! Come sit with us!"

"What?" Matthews looked from Danny to Marek, the latter of whom was grabbing his stuff and making his way over. "Danny, mate, I have enough of a headache today, I can't put up with the divine comedy right now-"

"Hush up and be nice." For once Danny threw a glare at his friend. "He's one of us. It's time we started treating him as such."

Marek flopped down on the sand next to them, his gear resting beside him, with a large smile on his face.

"Top of the evening, Kevin," he greeted the machine-gunner. "Patrol go well?"

"Um..." Matthews threw a look at his friend before turning back to the Irishman. "Well enough. Found an opium field, couldn't bring any back...shame, probably could've made some money off it back home...oh, shit, I probably shouldn't say that around you, should I? What with you having tea with the Lord and all..."

His ramblings were cut off as Danny and Marek began laughing. He looked from one to the other and then looked to the sky, wondering if this was his punishment for not receiving Marek sooner. Danny just handed him a marshmallow, then handed one to Marek, and popped his roasted treat into his mouth.

And from that point onward, Patrick Marek became their friend and companion. There were many situations in the world that you could not walk away from without befriending the people who went through it with you, and being stranded in a desert, cut off and surrounded by the enemy, was one of them.

* * *

I know this ending is reminiscent of that from Sorcerer's Stone, but I found it a fitting one, given the circumstances.

Not the best chapter in the story, but I'm satisfied with how it turned out. Do let me know your thoughts, and if I messed anything up.

As always, review, favorite, whatever meets your fancy, and I'll see you next time.


	7. The Lone Wolves

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** Alrighty, here we go. It took a while, but with chapters like this story has, it's not too surprising.

Enjoy.

* * *

The Lone Wolves

Sergeant Keaney stood at attention, not moving, not speaking, while Captain Wallace stared him over. There was a silence in the tent as thick as a foggy night in London, and as Lieutenant Port's remaining eye glanced from one to the other, there was a tension there as well. Not so much from the sergeant, however, as it was from the officers.

Keaney rarely had to meet with the captain personally. He was such a quiet, stealthy man that stuck to himself so often that there was no need to call him before company headquarters. He almost had free reign, the only thing preventing him being the chain of command. Only the captain knew the history of him and his squad; the rest were kept completely in the dark, and, in Port's case at least, it was quite fine that they were.

"So..." Wallace finally broke the silence, taking his hand away from his mouth and running it through his hair. "You...beat up Murphy, because, as YOU say, he was stealing from you-"

"Sir, he was rummaging through our equipment," replied Keaney, not so much as blinking. "And we didn't 'beat him up', Anwar and Redfield just gave him a warning as to not do it again-"

"Well, Doc is currently wrapping Murphy's chest for that cracked rib he has due to your 'warning', so maybe we'd better go with what I said, alright?"

Keaney kept quiet. Only the captain talked to him like that; he supposed he intimidated the others too much for them to follow. Wallace was not afraid of him. To him, Keaney was just another sergeant, colorful history or no, under his command. He was ultimately in charge; even this man had to obey to that.

He stood up and walked over to him, his arms behind his back. Keaney was taller by an inch, but Scott's rank and superiority still managed to tower over him as they stood face-to-face, eyes not leaving each other.

"Shane," he said, addressing the sergeant by his first name. "I took your men in, knowing what you lot had done, because I saw the potential you had. You're a great fire team, you've got a solid command, but you haven't learned how to cooperate with the rest of the men in the company-"

"Sir, we work better-"

"I know how you work, but beating a soldier because he rummaged through your personal supply, when we're in a combat zone, is unnecessary and despicable. For you to even be _hoarding_ supplies from the rest of the company is unnecessary and despicable, especially with what's going on now. We are ALL a team; we're not a bunch of individual squads under one captain. Every one of us works together, as one machine, and if part of the machine goes off on their own the entire thing breaks down. And I am not letting us break down."

Keaney kept his mouth shut. Wallace was angry, and that in itself was rare; too unpredictable for him to act accordingly. So he would stand there, and he would listen to whatever the captain told him, because he knew doing anything otherwise would be counter-productive.

"You're heading on patrol," Wallace ordered him. "You're going to take the same route Morrison's patrol took yesterday. But this time, your squad will be accompanied by Sergeant Price's squad. The two of you will work off each other, send off a scout from each side, one squad supports while the other flanks, and you all make sure each member sees the same thing you're seeing."

Except this. This was not what Keaney had in mind. His squad did well as a patrol because they were small and skilled enough to just slip in and out of places like ghosts. Price's men did not have that training or skill. It would be like trying to be a ghost with a big chain and ball strapped to his ankle, and out here in the desert, that was the last thing he needed.

"Sir, permission to reject request-"

"Denied. Price has already been briefed, and he's getting his team set up. You're going together. Now get out and brief your mates."

Wallace turned his back to the sergeant as Keaney opened his mouth to protest further. Port watched as the sergeant's hands balled for a moment, before relaxing and flexing back out. He turned and stormed out of the tent before any more words could be exchanged.

Port whistled. "He's not happy."

"It's not his job to be happy," Wallace replied. "It's his job to keep the men alive. He needs to learn there's ninety-one of us and that him and his four men aren't going to be enough. Not by a long shot."

"What are you hoping they find?"

"An epiphany." The captain slung his rifle over his shoulder and looked to his X.O. "Come on, let's go see how Charlie's doing with the prisoner."

* * *

Keaney was fuming all the way back to his team's resting area. How could Wallace do that? They had a perfect system, one that guaranteed to work and keep them alive, and now it was threatened. Did Wallace not know to not fix something that was not broken?

His team had worked together for a very long time; longer than they had been working in the company. They knew each other inside and out. They knew how they operated in the field. They knew what each others' specialties were. They knew more about each other than anyone else. They did not have that knowledge with Price and his men.

That could be the difference between life and death.

Anwar was waiting for him by their dugout as he returned. The two always shared a dugout together when they were out in the field. They went way back to the college days, roomed together for their last two years, drifted, then returned for...that job. He could be a pain to deal with sometimes, with an impatient attitude and a rash head, but Keaney could not ask for a better partner in combat.

"We're moving out. Make sure the men know," he ordered as he grabbed his pack.

"You got it," his friend replied. As he left, though, Keaney grabbed his arm to hold him back.

"We're going to have company with us today."

"...What?"

"Price and his mates. Wallace ordered they come with us."

"...You're not serious, are you?"

"I really wish I wasn't. Tell the others to be extra careful this time around. There's no telling what these loons might do."

"Shit," Anwar spit onto the sand and went off to find the rest of the team, shaking his head.

He took the words right out of his mouth, Keaney thought as he loaded up his M-4. His rifle was designed to almost match the SOCOM assault rifle; Acog scope mounted on the top for quick, accurate aiming, a silencer on the tip for shooting stealthily and, for his rifle, an M-203 grenade launcher instead of a grip, for when he needed a quick weapon and could not pull his USP out fast enough, provided he was a safe distance when he pulled a round off. He had trained exclusively with this weapon, knew it inside and out, and it would not be his biggest problem.

But Price...Keaney knew he was former Spec Ops, but that was years ago now and who knew how much the regular army had deteriorated his former skills? His men were even worse off; a bunch of lowlife grunts with hardly more than a year or two of experience. It was going to take a lot of his power to keep them all from getting killed today.

And he did not know if that was in his book of miracles, but then again, they might prove him wrong.

* * *

Price had picked Danny, Matthews, Owen, Sully and Finn for the patrol; three machine gunners and two support gunners. Keaney thought personally that three gunners was too many, but his men would be providing most of the light rifle section of the patrol, and this was a bigger group than he was used to leading. Maybe he would need the extra heavy firepower? He hoped it would not come to that.

"Alright, when we're ready, we'll move out," he ordered. "McCoy, you're lead scout."

McCoy nodded. The shortest of the team, he was also in the lead in terms of kills. This was because he was always the man up front, the point man, leading the patrol. He was the fastest and quite possibly the stealthiest. Keaney always put either him or Mathenson out in front, but now that "Mathes" was gone, the responsibility rested solely on McCoy to keep his owl-like eyes and fox-like ears open and alert, a responsibility he wholeheartedly accepted.

At least, that was how it usually went.

"Shouldn't we put McIntyre up front?" Price pointed out, looking over to where Owen was looking up with a frightened expression at the sergeant's words.

"And why," asked an annoyed Keaney, "would we do that?"

"Because he was on yesterday's patrol and he knows the route," was the answer. "Right, McIntyre?"

"Um...uh..." Owen stammered. He was never one for putting himself at the front of the pack; he liked it just fine being in the middle, or even the rear.

Keaney ignored the private and walked up to Price so that he could talk with his voice low. "McIntyre is built like an ox," he growled. "A scout has to be fast and thin. Your man would just be a walking target."

"Fine," Price answered, his voice still in a normal tone. "Matthews went yesterday too. He fits the criteria. He can go instead."

"Whuh?" Now it was Matthews' turn to raise his head. "Huh? I'm sorry, can...can we repeat that? I'm doing WHAT, again?"

"You're going to put a machine-gunner as a lead scout?" Keaney scoffed. "Unless he can go sixty-five with a SAW, that's probably an even worse idea."

"They'll switch off weapons. It'll be fine."

"Can he repeat that, please?" Matthews kept asking, looking over at Danny and Sully, who both just shrugged and looked away. "I must be hard of hearing or something, can we please get him to repeat it? Just the part where he was thinking of putting me up front? Please?"

"One scout is fine. We don't need to put two men at the front when one can suffice."

"Look, mate," retorted Price, not backing down, not looking intimidated. "Captain said we were working together on this one. Way I see it, we'll do a better job cooperating. One of yours, one of mine, on point. Shouldn't really be a problem, right?"

Price still had it, Keaney saw by observing his heavy gaze. Time with the regular army had done nothing to hinder his skills. He still had the look of a Special Forces soldier, he could tell. But he was still getting in the way of Keaney's mission, and that was a thorn in his side.

"Fine." He turned to McCoy. "Take Matthews and scout ahead. Be careful."

"Aye." McCoy looked just as happy with it as the sergeant did.

"Matthews, switch off with McIntyre," Price ordered the private. "You're on point."

"Sarge, you're not seriously considering putting me out front, are you?"

"What did I just say? Switch weapons with McIntyre and get going."

Matthews whimpered as he looked pleadingly at Owen, who just held up his M-16 to him with a smirking look that said, "Tough shit, mate." He whimpered again and took the rifle while handing the man his machine-gun in return.

Satisfied, Price returned to his men as Keaney returned to Anwar. He shared a look with his friend that the Arab-Englishman returned with full acknowledgment. That was the best thing about Anwar. They had spent so much time together that they could have conversations just through eye contact. The conversation they were holding was perfectly clear to him.

This was going to be a difficult day.

* * *

McCoy had never seen anyone as nervous to be on point as Private Matthews. The kid could not sit still, shifting on his feet, looking all around him like he was expecting the whole rebel faction to come sweeping in to take them away. He was doing everything a scout should NOT do when at the front: panic.

"Mate," he said, and Matthews immediately looked at him as though he were Christ resurrected, which further made him uncomfortable. "Calm down before you shoot your pants. We're fine."

"...Right...right..." The machine-gunner replied, though his eyes still darted all around. The other scout just shook his head and pushed onwards.

Behind them, the rest of the patrol was spread out but keeping together. There was a path that they had set up to walk out, a 3x4 sort of path, and Keaney's men walked on the left side of the path, Price's men walked on the other. Neither one interacted with the other if they could help it, and they preferred it that way.

Danny's stomach growled loudly. He groaned.

"I'm so hungry," he complained. "Feels like I haven't eaten in weeks."

"If we were back home, my mum could make food appear out of thin air," voiced Owen, his eyes having that dreamy expression of one thinking about home. "She could make a feast out of nothing. Every night we had steak, mashed potatoes, peas, Shepard's pie, and steamed carrots. On parties, she makes these spotted dicks and cream puffs and mountains of ice cream-"

"Jesus, man, enough," Danny groaned again. "I'm drooling over here."

"It's true, though," Finn added in. "One time I was over his house for the night and she cooked us dinner, and I swear, I thought I had accidentally stepped into a gourmet restaurant. That woman spoils him so much."

"She doesn't spoil me, she just likes to make sure I'm taken care of."

That was definitely true. Every two or three weeks back at the base, Owen would receive a package from home containing all sorts of homemade sweets; one time he had even gotten some prime rib that had fed everyone in the platoon. Owen was generous with his food, which is why he was well-accepted here when elsewhere in society people may ignore such a big, bumbling man. Yet they knew, though they never said it out loud, that his mother spoiled the shit out of him; the curse, they assumed, of being an only child.

"When we get home, I'll invite you all over, and Mum will make a feast for all of us," Owen said with a big cheery grin on his face. "You won't be able to eat for a week afterwards."

That was an appeasing thought, but only if they made it home, Danny thought. And that was still a long way off, as far as he knew, to start thinking about feasts.

"How's the SAW working for you, Owen?" Price asked from the front of the group, walking next to Keaney.

"It's got a different feel than the M-16 does for sure," came the reply. "Heavier. Feel like I have to brace myself when I lift it. I'm not really used to it."

"Firing it is a bit jerky," Finn admitted. "You gotta learn how to control it properly. I'll show you later."

As the two men conversed over their machine-guns, Sully- the only M-60 gunner- asked, "What're your plans when you get home, Sarge?"

"Me?" Price smiled. "I plan to spend some time with the family. My son starts university in the fall; I wouldn't mind spending some time with him. And I might start considering my retirement. I'm getting too old for all this; I've been at it for a long time. I think I've earned some peace and quiet."

Sully nodded. Price was one of the men he could respect fully; he took care of his men, made sure they were okay. He had seen some hard things in Panama, even though he rarely talked about it. Sully knew, though; they had gone for a pint in the bars in England once or twice, and get a couple of drinks in a man and they'll tell you the story of their cousin's christening if you asked them. The two were close friends; Sully hoped that Price would make it, get the rest he wanted.

"What about you, Sergeant Keaney?" Danny called up to the other sergeant. "What are your plans?"

There was no answer from the sergeant. He did not turn back, did not open his mouth, just keep watching ahead. Danny glanced over at Price, who stared at Keaney with a cold gaze, but did not speak.

"Sergeant Keaney?" he asked again. "I asked what you-"

"I heard you," Keaney's low voice replied. "My plans are to keep doing what I'm doing. Surviving."

"That's it? No family?"

"Nope."

"Friends?"

"No."

"...Girlfriend?"

"_Nothing_." Keaney's teeth were gritted as he spat the word out. "I've got my team, we have our assignments. That is all."

The private looked taken aback as he glanced around at the other men. On Price's side, the men just shrugged and continued walking. On Keaney's side, the men just followed their sergeant, not blinking, not making any sounds.

It was awkward, walking side by side with them. Keaney's squad was full of intimidating men, from the brawny, thick Redfield to the quick and nimble McCoy to the tall, thin Coupland. To those who did not know the men and had no idea that there was any sort of a history for them there, they were just ordinary men. But Danny and his mates had been in combat with them, and seen them work, and were terribly intimidated by them. They stuck to themselves, and to hell with everyone else.

Danny did not have any personal complaints about that; as long as they did not beat him like they beat Murphy, that was fine by him.

* * *

They reached the poppy field around noon, and here Sergeant Price ordered them to take a break. Matthews bent down, took his knife out, and began cutting some out and stuffing it into his pack.

"Would've gotten some yesterday, but Morrison spotted me and would've skinned me alive had I taken any," he explained to Danny, who accompanied him. "But I figured I could bring some back with me, make a decent profit with it."

_Like you need the money_, Danny thought to himself, but said nothing. Matthews came from a wealthy family, but he was always looking for ways to fend for himself, and if getting money off the Black Market helped him out, then he did it. It was amusing, some of the things he did; Danny recalled a time a few months ago where he had run a mail carrier business with some of the locals, doing trades and some such, until Captain Wallace had put his foot down.

"I don't think Maria would like it very much if you were selling drug material on the Black Market, mate," he said with a laugh; it always worked to invoke Matthews' girlfriend and get him all flustered.

To his surprise, however, instead of getting flustered, Matthews just gave a look as though someone had punched him in the gut. The grin he returned was a pained, gritted one.

"I don't think you have to worry about that one, mate," he said. "It's safe to say that that's not an issue anymore."

He let it rest at that, letting the words sink in. Danny's face turned into a frown.

"Wait..._when_?" he asked, as realization fully hit him and his face looked more shocked_._

"Oh, you know...two, three weeks ago, maybe a month."

"And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't want to think about it, actually."

He tried to brush it off, but Danny was concerned. Matthews had always been head over heels for this girl, whom he had met during high school and had dated since he was a freshman. He remembered when his friend had first arrived on base, how in love with this girl he had been, showing him the letters she had written to him; very nicely worded letters, he had noticed, almost poetic. But then again, she was majoring in English last he had heard.

True, in recent days, Matthews had not said much about Maria, but Danny had not really paid much attention; he had his other duties to attend to. Now, though, thinking back on it, Danny felt as though he had been a lousy friend to not even inquire about his friend's life.

"I'm sorry, Kev," he said softly.

"Eh," Matthews shrugged, grabbing another poppy and cutting through it. "It's fine. I mean, it's not like we were full-out screaming at each other, she was just heading in a different direction and I didn't want to feel like I was holding her-_Jesus_!"

He suddenly yelped and fell backwards as he cut away the poppy and a head fell onto his foot, cheek resting on his toe before he pulled away. Danny turned at the noise and aimed his MP-5 at the head, slightly jumpy now at his friend's sudden outcry.

The head, and the body that accompanied it, was laying right on the edge of the poppy patch. One look at the corpse told them that it was dead. It was completely naked, its skin brown, leathery and dry. Its eyes were sunken and staring off to some distant location beyond any earth-bound thing; its jaw was thin and protruding. Its skeletal hands were rested near Matthews' leg, and buried among the opium were its legs, bent and broken, in as good a shape as its arms were in, if not worse.

The rest of the patrol, minus McCoy who was up ahead keeping lookout, moved in and aimed their weapons down at the corpse at the sound of the yell. Keaney pushed to the front and aimed his long-barreled M-4 down at its head.

"What happened?" he demanded, his cold eyes gazing at the corpse, not looking away from it.

"He just freaked me out," Matthews retorted, still catching his breath. "I'm alright, just startl-_JESUS CHRIST_!"

Suddenly, the dead man lurched forward and grabbed his leg again. Its dead eyes stared up at him, and as he tried to kick away, he could see a new look in the eyes, a murderous look...

Keaney pulled out his USP .45 and shot it three times in the back. The being howled in pain, but instead of dying it just looked up at Keaney with a look of pure loathing, as it forgot about Matthews and went after Keaney instead. The sergeant's face, for a brief moment, shown a look of complete shock, before wiping it away, aiming towards its head, and pumping one round through its skull.

The silence that fell over them as the body was killed for the second time was thick enough to cut with a bayonet. Keaney kept his eyes trained solely on the corpse, not wanting to look up at any of the soldiers that may have been staring at him, confused at what had just happened.

Matthews scurried away from the corpse, a look of absolute panic on his face.

"What...I thought he was dead, _what_...?" he tried to choke out.

Keaney ignored him. "Coupland," he called.

Coupland came forward, taking his small med kit out of his pack. While not a certified medic, he had medical expertise good enough to patch up minor wounds, like a small bullet wound or a minor cut, and he knew to treat for shock. He had patched up every member of their squad from wounds at least once, some twice; Mathenson had been a third time wound that had unfortunately gotten away from him. He bent down and examined the body; Keaney was not expecting an expert diagnosis, but he knew his teammate would give him a vague estimation.

"No sign of any vitals," he said, lifting the head and examining the dead eyes. "From the looks of it, brain activity shut down long before now. This guy's been dead for ages, Sarge."

"What does that mean, then?" Price asked, squatting down to examine the corpse himself. "We all imagined him going for Matthews? Or do you have something else in mind?"

"Zombies," Danny said simply, looking up at Keaney.

"Don't be stupid," Anwar spat. "Zombies don't exist. That's impossible."

"I don't know about you, but there's been a lot of that going around lately," argued Sully. "Guys dying due to green light, giants knocking tanks around, people appearing and disappearing out of nowhere and deflecting bullets with bubble shields...if that's all happening, why not zombies?"

"He wasn't a zombie," Keaney said softly, and they saw that he was still staring fiercely at the corpse.

"Yeah, and how do you know?" the M-60 gunner demanded.

"Because," the sergeant turned his cold gaze on him, "zombies don't cry out in pain when they get shot."

"How do you mean?" Price stood back up, turning his attention now to the other squad leader.

"Zombies don't feel pain, that's common knowledge. I shot it three times in the back, it howled. Zombies don't howl when they get shot. This thing is something else."

"Something else? What else could it-?"

"Sergeant Keaney."

McCoy came speeding down the sand dune, an apprehensive look on his face. Danny noticed that there was no fear or panic in him, however; just a strong sense of urgency. Not for the first time he wondered if they had ripped their nerves out and literally put steel in their places.

"We've got hostiles incoming," he said. "Group of twenty or more. Quarter of a mile and closing."

"Rebels?" Price said, as his machine-gunners moved into position to provide cover.

"Not rebels," replied McCoy. "Not dark cloaks either. Something else; something different."

He looked down at the corpse and frowned. "They looked a lot like this guy," he said, returning his gaze to Keaney. "Did some break through already?"

Keaney looked up at Anwar, who returned his gaze with full understanding. Whatever these things were, there were more on the way. Eleven men versus twenty...whatever they were. Not bad odds at all, provided they were smart about it. If they were smart, they could take them all out without a single casualty to themselves.

Price would place his machine-guns to cover them; Owen would probably return the SAW to Matthews. He and Danny could then lay down concentrated fire while Keaney took his squad and shot amongst them. They would keep their distance, though, just in case they WERE zombies and their teeth somehow found their way to their throats.

"Alright, get into formation. My squad, on me," he ordered, dropping his pack and readying his rifle.

"Where are you-?" Price began.

"We're going to flank around. You get your men situated. Don't fire until they're close."

"Don't do anything stupid, you hear?"

For the first time that day, Keaney felt a true smile slip onto his face.

"You just worry about yourself, old man," he said. "And let me worry about us."

And with that, he took his men and took off around the poppy field.

* * *

They came over the hill as one whole unorganized group, not just in unorganized clumps. Danny had not been sure what to expect, but seeing twenty completely dead men and women crawling on hands and knees towards them was certainly farthest from his expectations. All of them were starkers-naked, even the women, and all of them were leathery-skinned and clammy-looking. All of their dead faces looked at them with a sense of murder, and not for the first time that week he wondered what forces were at work in this desert that could bring the dead back to life with the intention to kill.

He raised his sub-machine gun and popped off a quick burst that took down the lead male, a particularly fat-looking whatever-it-was, and fell backwards and took two of its mates with it. Those two crawled from underneath it but did not ultimately get back to their feet, instead crawling on their stomachs even after the rest of their lot had left them behind.

The low, pig-like sound of Sully's M-60 roared over the moans as he opened fire, cutting through the crowd like a scythe. Bullets, titanium-coated bullets covered in their green-tipped armor-piercing jacket, tore through arms, legs, and chests, knocking them down, but continually they got back into any position that was not straight-backed and kept coming at them.

_They don't bleed_, Danny realized, recognizing their still dry-looking bodies. In the movies, zombies still bled after being shot. They never completely bled out. They were disgusting, putrid-looking creatures, but these creatures here had holes riddling them but did not ooze any fluids. Keaney was right; these were no zombies.

So then what WERE they?

Finn had opened up his SAW, followed by Matthews. The three machine-guns were tearing them up, riddling them, yet a machine-gun, be it M-249 or M-60, was not built for head shots, and so they had no effect on the dead other than to keep them mostly at bay.

Owen had a little better luck. Switching his M-16 to single shot, he aimed his crosshairs carefully over one of the pack's heads. Not the best iron sights in the world, they nonetheless were efficient enough and he knew how to work with them. He aimed at one of the heads and squeezed off a round, dropping it. He aimed again and squeezed off another round, dropping a second being.

Still they kept coming, despite the oncoming fire. Two of them managed to stumbled down the slope, oblivious to the incoming fire from their position, and make their way to Sully's machine-gun. Sully fired the last of his belt, and then pulled out his Desert Eagle magnum just as the first one leapt on top of him.

Now, Sully was a big man, with very few fears. In combat, he could stare an enemy in the face and laugh as the man tried to shoot him. He had run back and forth with his M-60 through enemy machine-gun fire more times than most machine-gunners in the company would dare to do. He had been known to take rebel grenades that had been thrown at their lines and throw them right back, sometimes getting a kill, sometimes wounding a couple, and sometimes missing entirely, but his actions were a morale boost to anyone who saw them.

Yet he did have a fear, and that was death. As a four-year-old child, he had accidentally been left at a funeral home when two funerals were going on; one was his grandfather, the other a complete stranger. Both ceremonies had been open casket. Little Gavin had wandered forward and upon seeing his grandfather laying in the casket, cold, unmoving, eyes closed, something inside of him snapped. He could not stay in the room with this man who had once been lively but now lay dead as a doornail. And so he ran, screaming into the adjacent room and straight up to the front where the priest stood, only to be faced with another corpse in the exact same way.

Gavin had not been to another funeral in the twenty-nine years since then. He refused to go near graveyards, even when it became a past time among his friends to dare each other to camp out there for a night. And he refused to watch zombie movies. Because if there was one thing worse than seeing dead bodies, it was seeing dead bodies that were coming to eat you.

He cocked his magnum and brought it at the creature's head as it jumped on him. One boney hand grabbed his wrist and threw his aim off as he fired a shot into the sky. The other hand reached for Sully's neck, but he pulled away so that it grabbed the front of his shirt instead. Sully wrapped his fingers around the arm and tried to wrestle it off him, but the creature was surprisingly strong, even for him, and so he wrestled with the being, rolling around in the sand while the second one got still closer, wanting to cut in at any opportunity.

It did not try to bite him, Sully noticed. From the look in its dead eyes, it had no interest in eating him. Rather, it was trying to strangle him to death. He did not think this was better or worse, rather thought that it was odd. _Were_ these zombies? Or something else?

Its hand that was on his shirt kept trying to reach for his neck, but Sully managed to kick it in the gut, throwing it off him with part of his collar in its hand, having ripped a piece of it off. He paid it no mind as he brought his Eagle up and forcefully firing a round straight into its head. The recoil felt like he had been knocked over by a tidal wave, but he saw the round pass clearly through its head and it falling backwards and not getting back up.

Then the second one leapt on him and pinned down his arms, and its knees on his legs, and for a dead/undead being it still possessed formidable strength as it held it down and Sully almost felt his pants get soiled as it looked down at him with dead, wrathful eyes-

Price football-tackled it off of his chest and got up quick enough so that it could not latch on to him. He raised his L-85 to his shoulder, aimed down, and fired off a quick burst to its head. He bent down to Sully and helped lift him back to his feet, then turned to his victim.

"Almost had you there," he stated.

"You had my back, though," replied Sully, picking up his machine-gun. "Just like always."

Price slapped him on the back as the big man brought his 60 stock to his shoulder and aimed carefully at the remainder of this crowd, which was not much left. Indeed, they were cleaning up the remainders fairly quickly, and apart from Sully's T-shirt, there were no casualties among them.

They were just mopping up the last of their group when they heard someone rapidly firing off a pistol over the dunes. Price frowned. Keaney never went unsuppressed on an attack unless he needed help...which was to say, he NEVER went unsuppressed on an attack.

"Sully, on me," he ordered, charging up the hill. Sully nodded and followed as fast as his tired feet and his heavy machine-gun would allow him.

* * *

The rear assault started off fine. Keaney waited until they were completely behind the group before he ordered them to open up. The five suppressed M-4s fired almost exactly at the same time, though the average living person would have trouble hearing it, let alone these things.

Five went down within the first shots, and Keaney's squad worked their way forward, walking almost in step with one another, moving and shooting and almost reloading as one. They were a machine, thinking and acting the same, always on the same wave length and understanding with each other.

They fired no more than two or three shots at a time. Ammunition was scarce, and that was a main factor, but another factor was that it should never have to take more than three shots to kill someone, by their policy. If it did, they were wasting bullets. Every bullet had to hit a vital point, preferably the head. They had drilled constantly, to the point where they were almost designated experts. And against an enemy that could not shoot back, it was easy pickings.

Things were going well. They had kept their distance, picking their shots, and the group was going down. Keaney had emptied only about a third of his clip and was beginning to think this as the easiest job he had ever pulled when someone- on later reflection, it sounded like Redfield- shouted, "Contacts right! Contacts right!"

He turned just to see a whole different wave of those creatures crawling out of the sand, pushing themselves out of the dune, their sand-covered faces turning towards them. The whole dune was crawling with corpses, all of them pulling themselves out from the sandy graves. And that was when Keaney realized his mistake; he had rolled around to the other side, putting the group between himself and Price, effectively cutting themselves off from their support.

One of the monsters leapt at Redfield, who was ready for it. The private was built like an elephant and was strong as a bull. Keaney had once seen him take on three men at once, and emerge victorious. As silent as he was, he was a tank. He ducked and slammed his shoulder into the creature's stomach and rolled it over his shoulder and onto its back. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, bent down, took the thing's head, and twisted it, causing a popping noise to emit as he did. He turned just as another monster made a lunge at him, grabbed his arm, and twisted it so that it snapped, and then knocked it to the ground and bashed his rifle against its head until it popped.

Keaney pulled out his un-silenced pistol and fired a shot that went through a third creature's brain. The bullet made a loud noise and he realized then that the shooting from Price's position had ceased. They knew his squad never went un-silenced, unless they needed back-up. Which they did not necessarily need, this crowd was not THAT difficult, not to him anyway. But they would come running to save them anyway.

Well, they could clean up by the time they arrived.

He hoped.

Coupland and McCoy were to his left, Redfield and Anwar to his right. With a full six-man squad, they could pair off and watch each others' back. With five, however, it meant Keaney had to work alone. And it was because of this that he did not see the creature coming behind him, so engrossed was he in dispatching two at once. It growled and reached for him-

The loud burst sound of a sub-machine gun tore through the monster's head and back. Keaney turned as it slumped against him, its arms clasping his vest, almost dragging him down with it as it hit the sand.

He looked up, alarmed, at Price as he came down the sand dune, his smoking L-85 pointed at the corpse. He kicked it twice to make sure it was dead, then looked up and nodded at Keaney. Behind him, Sully was shooting his M-60 from the hip,laying into the remaining creatures. The remainder of Keaney's squad mopped up the crippled creatures with quick one-shots to their heads.

Price slapped Keaney on the back. "You alright?" he asked.

Keaney just stared at him with a blank expression on his face. It was as though a veil had been lifted from over his face and he was seeing Price for the first time. The former Special Forces soldier frowned, confused as to what was wrong with the other one.

"Keaney, you alright, mate?" he asked again.

The other sergeant just nodded. So absorbed was he and so confused was Price that neither noticed the shooting had stopped until the quiet of their surroundings became very much apparent. The rest of Price's group had arrived to help with mop up, but by now the undead were either completely dead or had disappeared back into the sand. A very loud silence now met them as they surveyed the carnage. The battle could not have lasted longer than five minutes, if that.

"Blimey," said Owen, looking up at them. "They barely even put up a fight. We just lay into them."

Finn, ever the Christian, walked around to each body and gave them the blessings allowed each dead man. As much as he sometimes admired the man's religious nature, Danny had to wonder what those rites would do for a being that was technically already dead. Still, he guessed it could not hurt to try.

Keaney still looked dazed, as Anwar walked up and patted his arm, asking with head motion if he was fine. Again, the sergeant nodded, but still there was a look in his eyes that was different, unsure. Price turned away from him to the rest of the men.

"Alright, Friar Tuck, let's wrap up the last rites," he said to Finn. "Everyone else, pack it up. If there are rebels out here, they're going to be drawn to the spot where they heard the shooting. We're falling back to camp."

No other words spoken. No need for burials, as they had lost no men and there was no need to bury dead that was not theirs. They packed up their stuff and they retreated back the way they had come, in hopes that they could outrun any rebels that happened to come by and see what had happened. That was how their war was played. There were rules to the game. They simply followed theirs.

* * *

They took a break at around the halfway point. By now the sun was lower in the sky, as mid afternoon was upon them. It would still be a couple more hours until they reached the camp, so the machine-gunners were placed on watch while the riflemen rested. It was a fair exchange, and for once, no one complained...out loud.

Anwar went to sit over with Keaney, who had positioned himself away from the rest of the men. The dazed, stunned look was gone, but now he had a deep, thoughtful look, and was still not talking. This bothered Anwar; he had known the man for years, and while it was true that he rarely talked to others, he still always talked to him. The fact that he was not doing this now gave him room for concern.

"Talk to me, mate," he demanded. "What's going on in your head?"

Keaney had his knife out, and was drawing circles in the sand with it. In addition to his weapons, he prided himself on taking good care of his combat knife. With a six inch-long blade and a TacHide that was useful in extremely wet conditions, Keaney was known to be a master at knife combat. There was a story going around that he had taken on a rebel with a sword with just his knife and had won; only he knew for sure that it was true. As a lefty, he had his sheath on his right shoulder pad, and when all other options failed, he would pull out the blade and go to work.

He drew two circles with the sharp tip, then held it in both hands and studied it.

"Price saved me back there," he said finally, his first words since the attack. "That thing came up behind me, I never even heard it...and he just took it out without even alerting me."

"Yeah...and?" It was a tale that seemed to have no relevance, at least from what Anwar could tell.

Keaney sighed, and put his blade back into its sheath. He then finally turned to face his friend.

"You remember that op we ran years ago in Cameroon? The one with the drug lord and supposed rebel insurrection?" he asked.

"Yeah, of course." It had been a terrible operation, if Anwar remembered correctly. A platoon of fifty had been sent in to remove a rebel outfit occupying a small village of straw huts and a wooden chapel. Being Africa, the jungle had been loaded with snakes, malaria, and snipers. By the time they were pulled out nine days later, only the men of Keaney's squad remained.

"Not a day went by where we didn't lose five people, five days trudging through that nightmare," Keaney recalled, as his voice went on auto-pilot while his mind relived the memory. "Ten we lost to malaria; McCoy got sick, but we treated it before it got really bad symptoms. Sniper was responsible for taking out a soldier or two a day. Two went missing...don't think we ever knew what happened to them...the jungle ate them, I supposed. And then there was that one lad, the one with the cleft lip and the birthmark on his nose-"

"Evanson."

"Evanson, right...lad couldn't have been older than eighteen, if that. And then that one night he took a bullet to the leg, and fell right into a boa pit. That was a fun night." There was bitter sarcasm in his voice as he spat it out. "He screamed for hours as this massive snake ate him, and I heard every bloody word...he screamed even after his chest caved in and his lungs blew out all the air so that his voice raised a few octaves...he screamed even after it had swallowed him whole...I still hear it, on a quiet night, when I try to sleep I hear him screaming and I see him fighting against the snake's skin as he slid on down..."

Anwar frowned. He had never known his friend to have nightmares, in all the time they had worked together. He himself had barely thought of that op in years. Life went on. War sucked and that was the truth, but it was a necessary evil. Men died, and that was part of it. You just picked yourself off and moved on from it.

"And I left him there to die like that..." Keaney painfully shut his eyes. "I swore that day I'd never want to die like he died. I want it to be quick and painless."

"Okay...so what? It happened. It sucked. What do you want me to say?"

He smiled and opened his eyes, turning back to his friend.

"Do you remember what happened when we finally reached that village?" he asked. "What did we find?"

His second hesitated. This was the part of the mission that none of them wished to remember; the outcome, the result of the five days of misery and death.

"Nothing," he finally replied. "No drug lord. No rebels. Nothing but a small missionary."

"And what did our leaders order us to do? Even after we told them that there was nothing there, that it was a civilian village?"

Anwar sighed. "We burned it to the ground," he answered. "Killed everyone. Left none standing. Bloody massacre."

"And we hiked back to camp, lost even more men. The jungle killed us more than the rebels did." Keaney shook his head. "All this time, I told myself that that was what a soldier did. Leave the dead, keep moving. Keep looking ahead. Complete the mission."

"And that's what we do-"

"But is it worth it? Today, Price had the option to let it kill me, but he didn't. He killed it before it could get me. All around, these guys do whatever they can for each other. They don't leave their men to die like I left Evanson."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they care. All of them. Even in situations where they know they have to leave a man behind, they still beat those odds and go for the rescue anyway. It's not every man for himself to them."

"But it's not for us either-"

"Yes it is. Yes it IS. We take care of ourselves, no one else. We act as one man, and we only care about getting us out, and forget the others. Don't you see that? We're the one greedy bugger who's only out for himself."

And right then, Keaney believed that Anwar was getting his point. In combat, men were divided into two ways: every man for himself, or all for one, one for all. For years, they had taken the first road and save for Mathenson it had gotten them very far. But the rest of the company were all about taking care of one another, pairing off, covering. Their squad had always been that one squad that was simply an extra addition, a member of the community without being part of the community. They were the lone wolves of the company, but they both knew it could not continue to be that way.

"We're in a tight spot right now. Whatever attacked us the other night hit us with something we've never seen before. And they'll be back, and I can guarantee they'll hit us with something a whole lot worse." He looked over his shoulder, towards Price and the rest of their group. "And I have a feeling it's going to take a lot more than just the five of us to get through them and make it home."

Anwar nodded gravely. He understood perfectly.

From now on, they had to be team players. They had to interact with the other soldiers, go on OP, patrols, all of that with everyone. They could still be one entity, but they had to extend their services past that. They would share food, ammunition, whatever. They would be part of the company, not part of a squad. Anything that would ensure they all made it home.

The two men sat there for some time before someone finally decided they get moving. With a decent amount of chatter, they rolled up their supplies and went back off down the path back to base, a little less hostility among them.

* * *

Overall, pretty content with how this chapter played out.

I'm not too discouraged that this chapter took a while. There are going to be some very long-winded chapters, and me being the perfectionist that I am with this story, I want to get it down to a pat. Even though it still has not seen many views, this is still a good story for me, and I'm writing it more for myself, and if others enjoy it, then the more the better.

Anyhoo, read and review if you so wish to, and I'll see you later.


	8. The Prisoner

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: T/M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** I would have had this chapter out SOOOO much sooner, I swear I would have. Unfortunately, my laptop's hard drive crashed in late December and, stupid me, I didn't back up any of my files. Thus, this entire chapter needed to be reworked from scratch.

Don't make my mistake, kids. Back your shit up.

Anyhoo, big chapter today, and a bit graphic towards the end, not TOO much because I wanted to spare those with delicate stomachs, so...enjoy!

* * *

The Prisoner

* * *

Wallace and Port stepped into the command tent where Grimes and Charlie were conferring among each other, troubled looks on their faces. Through the window screen, they could get a view of the second half of the tent, where Hunter was interrogating the prisoner, and judging by how red his face was, he was not having any luck.

"Did you get anything out of her?" the captain asked.

"Nothing useful," Grimes replied, shaking his head.

"It's all very odd, Captain," added Charlie. "Everything she says just doesn't make sense. If she was making a movie, then maybe we would have a chance at understanding her, but she believes that everything she's saying is real, and it's just so confusing."

"Why, what is she saying?" Port asked, but Wallace kept staring into the other tent. Hunter being angry was nothing unusual, even for an interrogation, but Charlie and Grimes sounded defeated. For such a small girl, she was throwing his men around for a loop. He looked onto the table behind them, where her belongings had been placed; a mirror, a silver locket, and a small pouch that was tied with a silk thread.

Charlie rubbed his eyes from under his glasses. The clerk, only twenty-two years old, was always present during prisoner interrogations, and while torture had never been an option as long as Wallace had been in charge, the process of interrogation was always taxing on the minds of everyone involved, interrogators and prisoners.

"Well..." he glanced over at Grimes, who just shrugged and shook his head. "She, uh...she thinks she's a witch, Captain."

There was an uncomfortable pause that filled the tent as the words tumbled out of his mouth. Both officers stared at the soldier as though he had grown an extra head. He squirmed uncomfortably until Wallace finally spoke.

"She...she thinks she's a..._what_, sorry?"

"A...a witch, sir."

"...Are we talking witch in the _derogatory_ sense, or...witch, in the _literal_ sense?"

"Um...literal sense, sir."

Port just stared at him blankly. Wallace buried his face in his hands for the moment, letting the words sink in. It was confusing, nonsensical, and not what he wanted or needed to hear.

"Okay, um..." he lifted his head and looked at them, "how long has she been out in the desert?"

"Not long, from what she says," Grimes replied. "From her words, her lot only got here recently."

"That can't be long enough to be completely out of her mind," noted Port.

"I'm not sure she _is_ out of her mind, sir."

"Franky," Scott looked at his sergeant major sternly, "she thinks she's a witch. Clearly she's not in her right mind."

"I agree, sir, but at the same time, she's been completely normal talking to us. Other than that outburst when she was brought in, she's been completely calm the whole time. Apart from the things she's saying, you wouldn't tell anything was really wrong with her."

"What was she saying?"

He shrugged. "A bunch of nonsense. Magic, wizards, monsters, her ranting about doomsday, her calling us a bunch of dirty Mudbloods, a-

"A bunch of dirty _what_?"

"Dirty Mudbloods. No idea what she's on about there. Sounds like an illness."

"Sounds like smallpox," Charlie added.

"No, I was thinking more something sexual, like gonorrhea or syphilis or-"

"What did she say about her mates?" the captain demanded, cutting through the casual banter.

"Plenty. That they're big and strong and all under their 'dark lord's' influence and that together they'll reign death and fire and destruction down on us all until there's nothing left-"

"Locations? Numbers?"

"Well, that's the thing she's still not budging on. Not like we really expected her to. She'll tell us all about what they'll do, but not where they are or how many. Could be ten. Could be a thousand. Could be just her, for all we know."

"Doubtful." Wallace looked through the netting into the other tent, to where the girl was sitting in the chair. "One little girl couldn't have done all that."

There was an angry shout, then movement through the tunnel, then Hunter unzipped the flap and stepped inside, zipping it back up behind him. He turned, his helmet tucked into the crook of his arm, his face still beet red with anger.

"That woman," he said, his voice strained from his growing rage, "is the most irritating, stubborn little wench I've ever met. A complete nuisance, doesn't listen to ANYTHING I say, doesn't make any sense at all, it's just...so...UGH."

There was nowhere else to do it, and his helmet was right in his arm, and he was so mad that he was not thinking rationally, and so he hocked a loud, wet-sounding loogie and spit it right into his helmet.

There was an overwhelming silence in the tent as Hunter stood still and stiff as stone with a blank expression and the other four soldiers just stared at him with blank expressions. The silence held over them, thick in the air, until Wallace finally broke it.

"Okay, um...well, I'm going to go in and try my hand...keep an eye on me, alright?"

They all just nodded slightly, still staring at Hunter. Wallace placed his M-4 on the floor, checked his pistol and holstered it, unzipped the flap again, and went through the tunnel, zipping the door back up behind him.

It was a little while after he left that Grimes finally spoke.

"Sir, did you seriously just spit inside your helmet?" he asked.

"...Yes, Sergeant Major, I did." replied the lieutenant.

"...Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Hunter sighed. "Go ahead-"

"That's really fucking gross."

* * *

Wallace stepped into the tent and his eyes immediately jumped up to the girl in the chair, who was staring back at him expectantly with a bemused look, as though she had been waiting for him and specifically him. He zipped the tent back up and went over to the seat and sat down, straddling the back rest and going straight in for the staring contest.

What was going on in those eyes, he wondered. Worry? Anger? Contentment? For such a small creature she seemed entirely too confident, even in the hands of her captors. The coldness behind those eyes unnerved him, but he did his best to contain it.

"Hello," he greeted. "My name is Scott Wallace. I am the commanding officer of this unit."

She said nothing, she just stared back.

"You've heard this before, but I'm going to say it again so you understand: You are our prisoner. We are in control here. You have no weapons, we do. If you cooperate, you will be treated fair. If you don't, we will harm you. There is no point in running; we are in the middle of one of the most arid, soul-crushing, mind-shattering deserts on the face of the planet. Do you understand?"

She said nothing, but he wanted to believe she did understand. One always wanted to reiterate the point when dealing with prisoners, just so that they understood. Demoralizing them into thinking there was no way to escape was one of the better ways to get them to talk.

"Good. Now, I want to know the location of your army." She scoffed at him, but he ignored it. "I want to know exactly how many of your mates are out in that desert and where each and every one of them are. I want to know strengths, I want to know weaknesses. And most of all, I want to know how they were able to wipe out our base with nothing but some sticks and fireworks."

"And why would you think," she finally spoke, her voice rough and hoarse, "that even if I told you everything, that you would believe it?"

"If I sense that what you're telling me is the truth, then you have nothing to worry about. But the way I see it, you have no reason to not tell the truth. It's been three days almost. They haven't tried to get you out. They obviously aren't going to try. You have no loyalties to these people if they have no loyalties towards you."

She scoffed at him again. If his words had meant to scare her or put her into a more vulnerable state, then they had failed to achieve that desired effect. If anything, his words of discouragement had done nothing but boosted her confidence. This irked him, though he did not let it show.

"You could not begin to understand us," she hissed. "What we are. What we're going to do to you. Our powers are beyond your comprehension."

"Right. Because you think you're a witch." He said it mockingly, hoping to invoke some sort of reaction. It didn't. "Well, I'll tell you right now, lass, I don't think you're a witch, or that you have magic, or anything like that. I think you have a new weapon, something not seen before, and I think it's a weapon that you should not have possession of. But I do not think you're a witch. I think you're a brainwashed child, pulled out of school for a cause she doesn't understand, thrown into a world she doesn't know, all on the word of a group of people; maybe even one person, yeah? I pity you, lass, and I don't believe you were intentional in what you were doing, but murder is murder and one hundred of my men are now dead. And I want to know how, and I want to know why, and you're going to tell me both of those if we have to beat it out of you."

What he did not notice, as he was leaning forward in his chair to speak directly to her, was that as he spoke his pistol holster was slowly but surely undoing its latch. Even less he noticed that her eyes, though were trained on him, were not trained exactly on his face, but on the holster, though they were not always on the holster for it to be doing the work it was doing.

Free from the restraints, the nickel-plated .45 pistol then slowly was pulled out of the holster by an invisible hand. Wallace, however, did not feel a thing, did not feel the lack of pressure to his hip as the gun was pulled behind him and floated up until it was head level and the barrel was pointed right to the back of his skull.

* * *

"Justin Fashanu, I'm telling you, he's going to go places."

"The gay one? Isn't he playing for America right now?"

"He's a good player!"

"Aye, but not League Champion worthy! Look, Manchester United's been talking about this new central defender that they're gonna premiere at the beginning of next month, this Brown kid, he sounds really promising-"

"He's, what, sixteen?"

"Eighteen. And they say he's good. Like, really good."

"Okay, but it's his debut season, he's not going to perform any miracles. I'm still saying go with a sureshot like Fashanu-"

Hunter cleared his throat. Grimes and Charlie's talk of football ceased as they looked up at the annoyed expression upon the lieutenant's face.

"Yes, LT?" Grimes asked.

"Sergeant, this is our headquarters tent, where we talk about _serious_ business, so maybe you'd rather take this conversation outside?" Hunter said.

"Um...Captain wants me to take notes, sir," stammered Charlie nervously.

"Then take your notes, Mr. Booth, otherwise I'd rather you take it to another tent."

"Look, sir," the sergeant major retorted, "we're just trying to pass the time while we wait for Captain to be done..."

Port shook his head as the two noncoms tried to argue with Hunter. Props to them, he thought as he turned back to watch the interrogation, but he knew trying to reason with Lieutenant "Cunt-er" as the rest of the lads called him was like trying to convince Colonel Shepard back at Jolly-Ole HQ that football was meant to be played on a nice green field with a-

_(__WHY THE HELL IS THAT GUN FLOATING IN MIDAIR BEHIND WALLACE'S HEAD__)_

Had he not turned in that one moment and saw Wallace's head a direct bulls-eye for the .45 that was usually in its holster but in this case was hanging in mid-air right behind him, aiming downwards and the captain not having a clue what was going on behind him and the girl was staring at him (or the gun?) with that evil bloody smirk on her face as if she knew exactly what was happening and _why_ it was happening and as if it was nothing new.

"SCOTT! _MOVE_!"

What happened next was a combined rush between both Wallace and the men in the adjacent tent, the events seemingly going on slow motion. Port's outburst alerted Hunter and the noncoms, who upon seeing the spectacle immediately jumped to their feet and grabbed their weapons. Charlie unzipped the tent flap and Grimes dove through it with his AR-15 at the ready.

Had his lieutenant not said anything, Scott would never have looked behind him to see the bore of his nickel-plated .45 staring right down at him on its own with no one else holding it. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped as the hammer was cocked backwards. _No way..._

The flap was opened and Grimes had barreled in moments before the trigger was pulled (though how it was pulled no one had the slightest clue of) and without a second to have another glance at the scene dove and tackled his commanding officer and pushed him aside just as the trigger was pulled and the gun discharged. The bullet tore through the head of the chair that had been facing the prisoner and then into the floor of the tent, right at her feet. The chair fell forward due to the impact. Upon firing, the gun immediately dropped to the floor with a heavy _thud_.

Grimes picked himself up and looked down at Wallace. "You okay, sir?" he asked, his voice rushed.

Wallace nodded, his eyes fixed on the hole in his flipped-over chair where he had been sitting in moments before. They then wandered over to his gun, his trusty sidearm that in those same moments before had been pointed right at the back of his skull, waiting to kill him, all on its own. Finally they went to the girl, who simply sneered at him.

SLAP! Hunter brought the back of his hand up and brought it hard across her face, causing her head to jerk to the side. She brought it back, a trickle of blood already running down the corner of her mouth. The lieutenant brought his hand up for another strike when-

"Lieutenant, stand down."

Wallace stood back up, rubbing his now sore arm. Hunter looked at him, hand still posed to strike.

"Sir, she just tried to kill you-"

"_She_ didn't do anything," Wallace retorted. "And that's the only reason I'm keeping her alive right now."

Hunter resignedly lowered his hand and took a step back. The captain looked back at their prisoner.

"Now tell me...what just happened?" he demanded.

She shrugged.

"Magic."

* * *

"Alright, calm down, everybody _calm down_!"

Carter and Pratt, dressed in full battle outfit minus helmets and with they light machine-guns at the ready, stood holding the twenty man crowd from going for the command tent with weapons ready, a look of panic across all their faces. Ryan stepped in between them and approached the crowd.

"Everybody just relax, there's no reason to panic," he ordered. "Go back to your posts."

"That was a bloody gunshot," Morrison insisted angrily, "and it came from inside the command tent and you're going to pass it off as nothing?"

"It was one gunshot, and at this time we have no reason to believe we are under attack. Now go back to your posts now before I put all of you on latrine duty, and I promise you I will not make it pleasant."

That did it for most of the men. As much work as they did, latrine digging was the last thing anyone ever wanted to do. No man ever wanted to wade in piss and shit while trying to either expand or clean the pits.

One by one the crowd began to dissipate away, off to do other things or get ready for an attack that they still felt was inevitable. Only Morrison remained, Will a bit away, wanting to depart but hanging back to wait for his friend. Morrison did not budge, however, his gaze steady and hard on Ryan, who was staring right back. The platoon sergeant walked up to him and soon they were face to face, Ryan just a little shorter than Morrison but his glare made him feel like he was three feet taller.

"That means you too, Corporal," he growled.

Will backtracked and grabbed his friend's arm, trying to pull him away. Morrison held his ground for a moment longer before finally backing down. Without a word he turned and sauntered off with Will back to the rest of camp.

Ryan watched them go with an annoyed look. Morrison and he had never had an easy relationship, but ever since his brother's death that almost-friendly rivalry had escalated into a full-on feud. Both men were veteran soldiers, had been doing this for some time, but Ryan was a leader, and Morrison was the follower, and both had the appropriate ranks to prove it. The problem was that Morrison did not want to follow Ryan, which would be all fine and dandy if they were not both in the same platoon and if Ryan did not HAVE to be Morrison's superior, and if Ryan did not have the rank over him. Morrison often let his emotions get the better of him, something that Ryan considered dangerous, and he suspected Morrison thought him to be a bit of a monarch; of which he had to be.

Once he was sure all the men were gone, however, he turned back to Carter, his stern look now one of slight apprehension.

"Go check the CT, make sure everything's alright," he ordered.

"Aye," Carter said, and took off. Pratt looked at him.

"You think it's trouble?" he asked.

"I think a gun was just fired from the command tent, Greg," Ryan reminded him. "For no bloody reason whatsoever. Yeah, I think there's trouble."

"Who do you think shot? Ours or-?"

"Hopefully it was someone just cleaning their gun and misfired."

"And if it wasn't?"

The sergeant hesitated. Technically, to shoot a prisoner was a violation of Geneva Convention, although they knew the rebels had executed plenty of good men with no regards to the Convention's rules. But they were not rebels, they were professional soldiers, and they had rules that they had to follow. Captain Wallace had always upheld those rules, for as long as he had been in command, and their previous C.O. had done the same: do not shoot prisoners, ever, the reasoning be damned.

So if the prisoner had just been shot, that was crossing a line. It was changing the rules to the game. Anything went and anything goes, and the boundaries were blurred. Real soldiers operated with strict boundaries. Blurring them tended to make them less professional and more animalistic. If they could kill prisoners, who was to say they could not do anything else?

"Let's just hope it was..."

* * *

Wallace set the chair back up and sat down, facing the girl once more. Everyone else stayed in the tent, Charlie with his M-4 trained on her, Hunter within slapping distance. Port and Grimes hung back, near the entrance but not leaving. Their guard had been down and it had almost cost their leader's life. No one's guard would be down now.

The flap opened and Carter's head poked in.

"Everything alright in here? Company's freaking out," he asked.

"Everyone's fine," Wallace replied, his eyes once more not leaving the girl's face. "Tell everyone it was just an accident. We're all fine here. Prisoner included."

"Aye, Captain. Need any extra hands?"

"We're all set, Staff Sergeant, but I'll let you know if your assistance will be required."

"Aye," he said again, and left, zipping the flap up as he left.

"Start talking," Hunter ordered. "How did you do that?"

"I already said-"

"If you say magic one more time, I'm going to flog you within an inch of your life." Hunter's short fuse was once again being lit; Grimes wondered how the fuse had not become unusable from being lit and put out repeatedly. "Now I want the truth, and I want it now, how-"

"Let her talk, Lieutenant," Wallace demanded. "I want her to tell it. We'll judge afterwards whether or not she's lying."

"Sir-"

"_After_, Lieutenant." He nodded to her. "Alright, talk. Why are you out here?"

She straightened up in the chair, looking awfully haughty. It was easy to forget how young she was, but even she could not hide the fact that she was still a teenager and had more to learn about the world than could be offered to her now. Charlie kept his weapon raised until the captain held his hand out and placed it on the barrel and pushed it downwards.

"Sixteen years ago, our master was defeated before he could complete his world conquest," she said. "Sixteen years ago, he disappeared at his most powerful, without a trace as to where to find him. Sixteen years ago his reign ended, and his followers were left to fend for themselves.

"Back then, my parents were among his most devout followers. They did all he asked, tortured, stole, murdered, all for him. Everything and more, they did for him, because they believed in his world, his vision. He promised to lead all of us to the perfect world, to exterminate all the filth, all those with tainted blood.

"When he fell, my mother was the one who went to try and find him. My father wished to go as well, but she requested he stay to watch over me. I was only two. She left to find him, and no sooner did she get to London when she was surrounded by Aurors, all with wands drawn. They knew who she was. They knew who she was looking for. They gave her the option to surrender herself to them.

"My mother was killed that night, struck with five Killing Curses before she could even raise her wand in return."

It was a sad part to the story, sure, but the way she spoke was matter-of-fact, no emotion, no care for her dead parent. Charlie was blinking furiously, his brain struggling to make sense of "Aurors" and "Killing Curses". Wallace looked over his shoulder at Port, who merely shrugged, staring at the girl with his remaining eye as though the girl had taken his eye and added it as her own to her face. Hunter looked frustrated and puzzled; Grimes was rubbing his temples as though they hurt.

"My father was forced to raise me on his own. For all my life, I was taught about my mother, about our master, about what he promised and what we would have to uphold for him. How we had to be ready for when he returned, because he would return, and how we had to prove to him our loyalties, that we were not like others who fled or denounced him, that we were faithful. So I waited, and I trained, and I practiced my methods, waiting for his return.

"And then it came, three years ago, he returned to us, and my father inducted me into his army to take my mother's place among his most loyal. Still we waited, for the moment where we could make our move. And finally, our time has come. England is ours. And soon, the rest of the world will be. We have been sent out on our mission. We will not fail him."

"Your mission?" the captain asked. "What exactly is your mission?"

Her lips twisted into a wicked grin. "To exterminate all of you."

It was so hard to take her seriously when she talked of magic and masters and what not, but still, whenever she talked about their destruction, it sent a chill spiraling down Scott's spine. He was not the only one. Charlie gulped rather loudly; Grimes shivered, but tried to pass it off as just a neck crack.

"And your master? Who is he?"

"The greatest wizard who ever lived." As she said this, her eyes suddenly sparkled, and for a moment an emotion other than contempt and scorn was shown upon her young face. "Great, and terrible. He's brilliant, but not forgiving. He has conquered every spell of the Dark Arts known to man. And he _really_ hates your kind."

"Why? We didn't do shit to him!" exclaimed Charlie.

"You exist. That's all the reason he needs."

"That's a piss-poor reason to attack a full company of English soldiers who are here to keep the peace," said Wallace, leaning forward, his anger building. "We have done only what we've been ordered to do, which _is_ keep the peace. We are _peacekeepers_. So your rebel faction and your little 'master' need to understand that an attack on us like that was entirely unwarranted."

All she did at his words were laugh at him.

"Do you really think this is about your war?" she asked. "He cares nothing for your little Muggle wars. All of you deserve to die."

"For existing? Are we not all human beings? Don't we all have the right to life?"

"You're all a bunch of dirty rats who stole magic from us for your own use-"

"_There's no such thing as magic_!"

So rare did they ever hear Wallace shout at anyone that it took all of them by surprise. Charlie almost fell backwards as he stepped away from the enraged captain. Port straightened up, about ready to restrain his friend if need be. The girl, however, did not budge.

"Then how," she asked next, "was I able to lift one of your weapons, put it to the back of your head, and almost kill you with it, all without even touching it?"

That set him off. In one fluid motion he had leapt to his feet, grabbed his pistol off the ground and placed it right against her forehead. His face was red, his eyebrows were furrowed, his teeth were clenched. The attempt on his life had shaken his nerves, and now he was loosening his restraints, something he never, ever did.

"Go ahead," he growled through his locked dentures. "If you're really magic like you say, then what's stopping this bullet from leaving this barrel and blowing the top of your head off? Huh? You say you're magic? Can you do your trick before I do mine? Because odds say you _can't_!"

"_Scott_!" Port came forward and grabbed his arm, trying to pull him off. "You're not going to do this-"

"_Come on! Prove it to all of us! Prove you're magic_!"

Smoke was steaming from the spot on her forehead where the still-burning hot barrel was pressed against, but her face did not register it. But he saw it, he did, in her eyes, that look that he had hoped to see that she had thus far hidden from him. That was all he needed to see, as he lowered his arm to his side, regaining composure.

He stepped back, away from her, allowing Port to step in. The X.O. looked down at her with his one remaining eye. At his height he seemed to tower.

"I have a question," he told to her, keeping his voice surprisingly soft. "And just one question. You say you're responsible for the attack on our base. Almost two weeks ago, we lost another one of our bases to enemy fire. The damage done there was the same as that done to us. Were you responsible for that attack as well?"

She sneered again.

"Why don't you look in that pouch you've put on the table and find out for yourself?"

She nodded towards the sack on the table next to the other items. Without a moment's hesitation, Wallace went over and tore the thread off from the opening, peering inside. He froze.

"What? What is it?" asked Port.

Wallace lifted the bag and turned it over to allow its contents to spill onto the table. Out came the large pile of small circular metallic objects onto the plastic surface, taking up most of the face. Grimes approached and picked three of them up. All of them had names and numbers etched into them.

"Dog tags..." he said despondently.

"Over thirty of them," the girl said proudly. "Each killed by my own hand. We were ordered to take all of the identification pieces of of the rats we killed to present to our master as proof that we did his bidding."

"What kind of sick..." Charlie looked at the officers for some form of reassurance. Both lieutenants just stared at the girl, Hunter in anger, Port in shock. The former's fist began to curl and for a moment the clerk was sure he was going to strike her again. The latter just stared, almost shaking his head at this poor girl so horribly corrupt.

Wallace just shifted through the dog tags, one after the other, memorizing the names written upon it. Jenkins, T...Smith, W...Burgins, J...Elliot, S...name after name after name, all soldiers, all comrades. And this girl had killed every last one of them? Unbelievable, but he had no doubt about it. Those men...they had just been good men doing their jobs, and now they were dead because of a bunch of crazies who thought they were-

He stopped, his eyes fixed hard on the one tag he had picked up. The name upon it...he turned and glared at the other girl, whose face remained expressionless.

"Everyone, other tent. Now."

Port and Hunter exchanged confused glances before obeying. Wallace left with Grimes, Charlie being the last one out, keeping his M-4 trained on her, before going through the entrance and zipping up the flap.

"That was abrupt," Port noted as they zipped the second flap to close the tunnel completely. "What's wrong?"

Wallace looked through the screen at the other room at the girl in the chair, staring up at the ceiling without any real thought behind it. That girl...she was the one who killed...

"Can anyone here actually make sense of any of this?" Grimes asked. "Because I can't understand a bloody word she's saying. Yeah, sucks about her mum, but I mean, how does that explain the magic stuff?"

"Nothing. It explains nothing," fumed Hunter. "She's using her mother's death as an excuse to kill people. And this whole magic shit is just a joke she made up to mess with our heads-"

"She's not joking." Wallace said, causing all of their heads to turn back to him. "Not entirely. Or if she is, she doesn't know it. No, this girl really does believe she's a witch."

"Well, that makes her even more of a psycho then, doesn't it? The girl is a bona fide Section Eight, the blokes at psych would have a field day with her."

"That look in her eyes, when I put that gun to her head..." In his mind's eye, Wallace saw the look she gave him, the expression behind it. "She was scared. I was sure of it. Did you feel it? The way it shifted in there? The way she didn't even say a word? She wasn't smiling anymore when I did that. For all the talk she is, she does not want to die anymore than we do."

He turned back to them, sighing. "Which is going to make it hard to watch for when we do kill her, I imagine-"

"Wait, _what_?" Port demanded. "Scott, we have rules. We can't just kill a prisoner."

"Rules have changed in this situation."

"They _shouldn't_! We are professional soldiers, we do not just execute prisoners!"

"Well, what are we going to do, then?" Wallace turned on his executive officer. "We can't keep her. Feeding her's not an option, we can barely feed ourselves. She offers us nothing to work with, and she's so low on the ladder I doubt she knows any of their secrets. You think that's going to change if and when we hand her over to Command? She's just admitted to killing over thirty soldiers, OUR soldiers-"

"How does that excuse her from any other rebel we've taken prisoner? Are we supposed to just execute her because she's a girl?"

"She attacked us unprovoked, wiped out our base, half our company, all for a fairy tale. We don't have the manpower or resources to deal with it!"

"_We can't just kill her_!"

"_All we CAN do is kill her_!"

The other soldiers in the tent just stared wide-eyed as the two commanders went at it. While they had their disagreements before, never had it gotten this vocal; other than battle, they could not remember a time where they had ever even raised their voices. What was it about this little girl that had them going at each others throats? Surely she was not THAT special, right?

Wallace and Port glared at each other, an imaginary barrier in between them. They had to make the decisions, and either way, someone was not going to like it.

"She's just a child," said Port.

"Yeah?" Wallace tossed him the tag he had taken from the pile. "And she's a child who caused this."

He saw his lieutenant read the name upon the tag. He watched as Port's face fell and his mouth dropped open. He nodded as Port looked up at him with that look, wanting some form of certainty, some form of confirmation. And finally, he looked upon a face that now understood why the girl had to die.

He took the tag and tossed it to Grimes. "Get him," he said. "Bring him in here."

Grimes looked at the name and his brow lightened as he too made the realization. Without a word he nodded and went out the flap. Wallace stayed where he was, again looking through to the other tent. Charlie turned to Port.

"What did it say, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"What do you think it said?" Port asked, his eye not leaving the captain.

Wallace ignored him. This had to be done. He had promised him the opportunity if it happened, though in hindsight he should not have done that. He knew he was probably making orders off his shot nerves, but he didn't care. This girl, her whole situation, was just not right.

And who was he to try and find the logic in it?

* * *

"Morrison."

He and Will looked up as his name was called. Grimes was standing there, and Morrison did not think he had ever seen him look so grave. Something must have been up.

"Captain wants you at the CT," he said.

"Everything alright?" asked Morrison, concerned.

"Just come on. Bring your club."

He frowned, glancing over at Will, who glanced back just as puzzled. He looked back and nodded to the sergeant.

"Will, you stay here. I don't think I'll be long," he said.

"Aye, alright," his red-headed friend replied, watching the two go off with the same puzzled expression.

The whole time following, Morrison watched Grimes, trying to figure out what the problem was. What was at the CT that required him? The only thing there was the captian and whatever orders he gave him and...well, and the prisoner, but that was not why he had been called, right? He was not allowed to talk to her, no one but the officers were mostly, so that could not be the reason...could it?

They got to the tent, and Grimes opened the flap. Morrison stepped inside, looking from face to face as the sergeant major zipped the flap up. Wallace turned to him.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" the corporal asked.

"Tom," said the captain, cutting right to the chase. "I need to go in there and talk to her."

"...Why?"

Wallace tried to manage a smile, but for the first time in Morrison's memory, he failed. He braced himself. Something bad was happening, and whatever it was, apparently only he could defuse it. But what could he do that they could not?

"Because you're the only one who this will benefit," he said. "The only one who will listen to her and believe what she says. And trust me, you'll want to hear what she has to say."

If that was supposed to make sense to the corporal, it failed; Morrison was now more confused than ever. Nevertheless, he nodded.

"Aye, Captain."

"What you need to know going in is that her mother was killed when she was a child, and her father brought her up under the influence of their 'master', and that she believes that she is a witch. Did you get all that?"

"I...think?" Probably the most confusing background he had ever been given, in honesty, but maybe she could clarify it better.

"Okay. Go on. Bring your club."

Again he frowned, but said nothing. Normally, for obvious reasons, the soldiers were not allowed to bring in weapons, save a sidearm for self-defense/threats. His club, which was curved on one end and flat on another, was not good for self-defense and it was hard to threaten someone with it; it was purely a kill weapon, and that was definitely not allowed. If the captain thought he would need it, it must have been very serious indeed.

Wordlessly he stepped through the door to the tunnel and zipped it up behind him. Port turned to his superior, again looking defeated.

"This is a mistake," he said again.

Scott said nothing, but turned instead to the screen to see what was about to happen.

* * *

Morrison stepped into the tent and looked up to see the girl sitting in the chair, with her arms tied behind her. She had been looking up at the ceiling of the tent, but upon his entrance she turned back and returned his gaze. She was beat up, and looked more mature than she actually was, but otherwise she looked completely unimportant, nothing special about her at all.

He closed the flap and went to the chair that Wallace had sat in before, but before he sat down, he stopped to examine the bullet hole in the head. Was _this_ what had caused that ruckus earlier? What exactly had happened here? Was this the captain's doing or hers? No, it could not have been her, how could it be? She was all tied up.

He turned the chair around and sat back against the head, smiling at her.

"Hello," he greeted. "My name is Tom. What's yours?"

She shifted in her seat. "Arianna," she said.

"Hello, Arianna," he said, keeping the smile on his face, trying to be civil. "I have to say, your accent is very nice. Cockney, yeah? You're on the East End?"

Again she shifted. He wondered if her being civil made her uncomfortable. Goodness, what had this girl gone through?

"My family is from the East End of London, yes," she answered.

"I do love a Cockney accent. I'm from Glasgow myself, but my wife's family originated on the East End, and she has a terrific accent. My daughter unfortunately has mine, which is a right shame. But my wife's insistent in that our next child will have hers, which I'm hoping she's right."

She just stared at him as if he had two heads. Right, then...

"I'm very sorry to hear about your mother. It's a shame, to lose a parent at such a young age. It must have been very hard for your father."

Again, she just stared at him. Apparently, small talk was not going to be very effective on this one. Best to move on to the point of this visit.

"Arianna, the captain wants me to talk to you. Why does he want me to talk to you?"

She shrugged. "Are you a priest?"

He let out a laugh. "No, ma'am, I'm not."

"Then I have no idea why he would want you to talk to me."

"He also said that you believed you were a witch. Why would you believe that?"

"Because it's what I am." She was very straight up with that answer, he noticed. Okay, maybe she really _was_ crazy.

"But witches are ugly people. They got the long noses with the warts, they got the purple hair, they're old and bent over with age, and you're not any of that-"

For some reason, she thought this ridiculously funny, and she burst out into laughter, catching him by surprise. But when she looked back at him, the gaze she gave him was a cold, demeaning one, the look of a merciless killer, and that alarmed him more.

"Where do you people get your knowledge of witches from? From old children's stories passed down by Muggles who despise our kind, who see us as vile, despicable creatures who should be beaten, feared because we are different? Not understanding that YOU are the inferior race, NOT us!"

"But I _don't_ think of you like that," he insisted, still trying to keep friendly and calm despite her growing anger. "I don't think of you as anything other than a young, confused girl who's involved in something she shouldn't be. You say I look at you like that, but you haven't given me a reason _to_ look at you like that!"

She turned from him, which annoyed him slightly. Seriously, why was everyone thinking of this girl as if she were a ticking time bomb about to explode? She was a child, for Christ's sakes! They had treated rebel children with more kindness than they were doing with this girl!

Morrison had always had a soft spot for the younger generations, from child to teen, which is why his time on deployment had confused him so much. The use of children as either lookouts or actual soldiers was a concept he still to this day could not wrap his head around. Whenever he went out into the city, whenever he could, he would give food to the children and watch over them as they played tag and passed the ball around. His fatherly instincts propelled him to be everything he could be to them, try to be that one bright spot in their lives that they possibly did not have in their own homes.

The more he talked with her, the more he started to understand- or believe that he understood- what she was about. The death of her mother had to have traumatized her, traumatized her in a way that her father had only since fueled with ideas of magic and dark lords and revenge on people that had continued to treat her family poorly. What this had to do with the here and now, he had not a clue. But she needed help, and hopefully, with some time, she would accept it. If the captain would allow him more time to talk with her, then maybe he could break through, have her listen to reason, and maybe she could get better.

But all those thoughts and ideas and beliefs went right out the window with the things she said next.

"You need a reason?" Her lips twisted again into that devil smile, and he suddenly felt himself tense up, bracing for some kind of harsh impact that he felt was coming. "Would a good reason be that my forces were the ones responsible for attacking your base? Or how about that we destroyed your other base as well?"

His face fell. "You attacked Echo Base?" he said, trying to keep his voice collected despite his uncertainty.

"How about the fact that I killed over thirty of your soldiers combined from both of your bases, about how I killed them with my wand, about how I tortured many of them before I killed them, saw the pain and fear in their faces as I took their lives away from them and then took their identification tags away from them, as treasures for my game."

"Did you now?" His voice kept calm, but his insides had grown cold. Suddenly he had an idea of why Captain Wallace had specifically summoned him to talk to her, and why he had to bring his club. And he really hoped he was wrong. "Do you...do you remember any specific men? Any names?"

She laughed at him, but all the humor and good spirit he had had coming in was gone, fading with anxiety, worry, and- if his suspicions were correct- the rage that may come boiling out at any moment.

"I remember every single name of every man I killed," she confessed to him. "I memorized every single tag I collected. I can remember every single name, even now, on the spot. C. Darrell, P. Anderson, T. Baker, M. Roy, L. Morrison, A. Lewis-"

"L. Morrison." He blurted it out, his eyes suddenly wide. She chuckled.

"He was one of the more amusing ones to watch die," she said. "A coward, he was, a young lad in his late twenties. I cornered him into one of the burning buildings and he tried to pull one of your little guns, as if he thought he could kill me with it, and I disarmed him. And he begged and he pleaded, and I can still remember him trying to scurry away from me. '_Don't kill me_!' he screeched." And here, she tried to imitate the young man's voice, failing to properly do so. "'_I have family, don't kill me, I have family_!' His pleas amused me so much. I remember torturing him, watching him writhe and twitch on the floor like a kicked dog, pleading for his life. With my waking eyes, I can see his face as I raised my wand to kill him, the last words he said before I said the final curse: '_For God's sakes, ma'am, I'm getting married next month, don't kill me_!'"

She laughed, her laugh high and cruel ringing in his ears, so lost in her memories that she failed to notice his reactions to them. Failed to notice his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his skin. Failed to see his nose flaring with harsh breathing, his mouth locking up tight, leaning down so that she could not see the changes to his facial structure.

This was why Wallace had brought him here, to hear this. He knew, and he had not told him going in, because he did not want him to kill her. Or maybe he did? Maybe he had brought him in here and had not told him for that exact purpose.

So here he was, face to face with his brother's murderer, something he doubted would ever come to him. And it was a teenage girl. A teenage girl had murdered his brother in cold blood...and for what purpose, because she had been treated harshly? That did not excuse her...that did not make up for the family that would have one empty seat at the dinner table, for the fiance that would wait forever for her lover to return for her and knowing that he never would, of the brother who now had to suffer the consequences..._his fucking brother_...

"Well, how about that..." he said softly, trying to contain the rage in his voice.

She frowned at his words. "How about what?"

And then he looked back up at her, and then she could see it in his eyes, the fire, the anger that was threatening to overwhelm him as the softness in his face was gone to be replaced by hate, the hate he now felt for her.

"Morrison," he growled, his voice low and deadly, "just happens to be MY name, too."

* * *

Something had shifted. Scott could feel it, even though he could not hear them talking, he could feel the shift in the atmosphere. He could see Morrison's reactions to something, he could only assume what, but he knew the assumption would be correct.

He felt Port rub his eye and sigh in a weary manner.

"We have to do this, Will," he said. "He has to do this."

* * *

They looked at each other for a moment, him studying her for a moment, her being very confused. She had expected this reaction, had hoped to get him angry and feeling helpless, but this...the anger was there, but not the helplessness...this was something else.

Then Morrison stood up, and strolled over to her until he was towering over her, and at almost five foot eleven he was a tower of a man indeed. He reached into his vest's pocket and pulled out a picture of a young man with dark hair in uniform and held it out for her to see.

"Remember him, do you?" he said, his voice normal, if somewhat shaky. "Private Lucas Morrison? Remember the man you killed?"

* * *

"She's proven that she will not hesitate to kill any of our men in cold blood, has proven that she has no regards for any of us. These are not regular conditions she has put us under. Even rebels take prisoners; these people don't even bother, they're just murderers. We need to show that we are willing and able to protect our own at any costs."

* * *

Morrison threw the picture at her face. "He was my brother," he told her. "He was my younger brother, he joined right after I did. He was the best kid a family could ask for...the best man a fiance could ever want...and you killed him."

And then he pulled out his club. She stared at it, wide eyed, how oddly fashioned it was and how deadly it looked and she struggled against her bindings in a feeble attempt to break free, to get loose, to escape this man that was now threatening to kill her.

* * *

"She said it herself; her mission is to kill all of us." Wallace glared at the now struggling prisoner. "I'm not going to allow her or any of them to think they can just do that and that we're just going to take it. If they're going to bite, we're going to bite back, harder."

* * *

"Wait! You can't!" Arianna shouted. "Your captain will not allow it!"

"What he won't allow is for me to go back home and tell my parents why their youngest isn't coming home, why his fiance is going to be a widow before she even walks down the aisle!" Morrison screamed in her face, the good intentions and civility gone, replaced by hatred and spite. "What _I_ won't allow is telling them their loved one died and no justice was served for it!"

"I was ordered to kill all of the filthy Mudbloods by my master! We're _supposed_ to exterminate you, do you hear me? It's our _right_!"

"Oh your _right_ is it? Your _'right'_? _Well, I'm here to claim the right of HIS FAMILY_!"

She screamed and as she pushed away her chair fell backwards and she landed on the floor of the tent as he brought the club over his head and brought it down.

* * *

Port turned away as Morrison forcefully swung his club down down onto the prisoner's head. He didn't want to see this.

Scott did not turn away. He just trained his eyes on the carnage happening in the other tent as Morrison brought his club down on this girl again and again, did not turn away as the girl's body was turned into a pulpy mess, did not even flinch or slam his eyes shut as her head made the sound of a pumpkin hitting the ground at high velocity. The tent would need to be cleaned later, washed out of the blood and brain, but it did not matter, he would do that himself later if he had to. His men would either accept his decision or shun him for it, but it was his decision and they would have to abide by it.

It did not take long, only five minutes, but by the time Morrison was finished the tent was an unrecognizable blood splattered mess. Her body now lay crumpled, bent, sitting in the chair with her legs sticking up in the air. Her head was no longer a head but a messy pulp of red-orange with bits and pieces of skull sticking out. Usually whenever a soldier was shot their bodies would twitch a little as part of their last actions, but this body did not twitch, just laid there, dead as a doornail.

No magic was picking that corpse back from the dead.

* * *

Morrison stood over the corpse, blood spots on his cheeks and forehead, his chest panting heavily, the anger leaving his eyes but not before he hocked up a big loogie and spat it onto the destroyed cranium and then stormed out of the tent.

* * *

"Morrison-" Grimes tried to stop him but the corporal burst out of the tent before he could. Mere moments later they could hear the sound of retching and what sounded like water or liquid of some kind hitting the sand. The sergeant major stuck his head out.

"Yeah, he just threw up," he said, turning back inside with a sickened look. "Want me to help him out?"

"Yes, help him back to his tent," Wallace ordered. "Then come back and you and Charlie can bury the body."

"Do we..." Charlie looked through the screen into the other tent and gulped upon seeing the carnage. "Do we have to clean all that up?"

The captain felt Port's gaze on him, but tried to ignore it. The tent was his responsibility, not that of his men. He would not force them into something that he himself should do.

"No, I'll clean it up," he said. "Just dump the body."

Charlie nodded, looking relieved, and left with Grimes to find a blanket and gloves to pick the body up with. Hunter moved closer to the flap, stopping only to stare at his commanding officer as if he were staring at a complete stranger. Wallace stared back, pushing away from any conversation that was to be had; he did not need to explain himself to his platoon leader, at least not at this time. The lieutenant, for once, seemed to understand that, and merely gave a crisp salute and bowed out of the tent.

Port remained, not speaking, not budging an inch. He just stood there, watching his friend with a hazy look. Wallace tried not to return the look. He had just allowed something that had been against policy, and what made it worse was the fact that it was a teenage girl. He could barely explain why he had allowed her murder, only in that, to him, the rules of the Convention did not apply here. But how did he get that across without seeming like a murderer? He could not figure that out.

Without a word, he simply left his lieutenant where he stood and went off to find cleaning supplies for the blood.

* * *

It was around five-thirty in the afternoon when Price and Keaney's squads returned from patrol. By that point the sun was blood-red in the sky as it began its decent from sight for the night. They found Grimes and Charlie finishing digging the grave at the edge of the camp, Arianna's body wrapped in a heavy blanket next to her final resting place.

The patrol stopped as the two were taking their break. Price nodded his head at the mummified corpse, frowning.

"What happened here?" he asked.

"Morrison killed the prisoner," Charlie replied, slamming his shovel into the dirt.

Matthews raised an eyebrow. "And Captain allowed that?"

Grimes shrugged. "She killed his brother during the Echo Base attack."

Danny nodded, understanding. Captain Wallace had allowed Morrison the revenge he had been promised. Noble, if a tad bit reckless. Of course in killing her that meant all bets were off, that anything went between their forces and this new one. Still, he did not particularly blame Wallace for allowing it, though he knew that the captain was now going to come under some criticism for it.

"Where's Captain now?" Keaney wanted to know.

"He spent about all afternoon cleaning the mess made in the tent, then took off for a walk. Haven't heard from him since," the sergeant major replied.

"The other officers around?"

"Lieutenant Port should be in the CT, Sergeant, you can try him," answered Charlie.

"Right," Price turned to the rest of the men. "We're gonna go make our report. Patrol dismissed."

Keaney followed him as they left for the command tent. Finn and Owen wandered off, probably to get a drink from Archie's still, while the members of Keaney's squad sauntered off in another direction, laughing and talking among themselves. The sense of unity between the two groups that had occurred during the day was loosened, but not gone, not entirely.

Sully cradled the body of his M-60 in his arms and nodded at the body.

"How off is she for it?" he asked, as carelessly as he could be without trying, which he was not.

"Well, her head's gone, and her chest cavity is more or less impounded, but other than that she looks fine. You know, apart from being dead fifty ways to Sunday," said Grimes, annoyed at the tone of the question.

"Cheeky," the machine-gunner said with a grin, and with that left to return to his Humvee work.

Danny and Matthews hung back to continue talking with the two gravediggers. Matthews reached into his pocket for an MRE and threw it to Grimes, who took it gratefully as Danny sat on the edge of the pit.

"So," said the sergeant as he ripped the package open, "what did you guys find?"

Danny shook his head. "You wouldn't believe us if we told you."

"Well, can't be any worse than this girl going on and on before her death about how she was a witch with magical powers-"

Here, Matthews, in the middle of taking a sip from his canteen, snorted and choked out water from out his mouth and a little out his nose. He coughed, trying to unclog his systems, and wiped his mouth.

"Sorry, _what_?" he asked.

"Aye, I _wish_ I was making it up, but she was serious. I put up with her all day telling us that she was following the orders of her 'master' to kill all of us dirty Mudbloods-"

"What's that, chlamydia?" asked Danny, perplexed.

"No bloody idea. She was a fucking loon. Honestly, I'm not too mad she's dead, I'm just more surprised over it. It's not something Wallace usually condones, you know?"

"Mmm..." And again, it was going to be tricky to come back from it. But Wallace universally held respect in the company, so maybe he'd be fine. They would just have to see how this played out.

"So? What did you lot find?" Grimes began chewing on the contents, in this case being two-day old jerky. It was stale as all hell, but jerky was jerky and he was hungry.

"Well, a group of about twenty zombies rose from the sand to try and eat us," Matthews replied. "Almost got Keaney and Sully, but Price saved them both."

"You taking a piss?" Charlie looked from his face to Danny's, looking for the joke. But Danny shook his head, confirming the story. "Blimey...first Wallace's gun, now this?"

"What? Gun?" Danny frowned.

"Yeah, this one's bizarre. When Captain was interrogating the prisoner, his gun just lifted out of its holster and tried to shoot him, all on its own. Like, literally, this gun was floating in mid-air, cocked and pulling the trigger, and no one was holding the bloody thing."

"_Nooo_," Matthews shook his head. "No, no, no. Sorry. Not buying it. After the day I've had, this is just too cruel a joke to play on me."

"It's not a joke. We all saw it," Grimes interjected. "That gun acted completely on its own."

"How the hell is that possible?" Danny wanted to know. "How does a gun just move and shoot on its own?"

"Dunno. For a moment, you almost want to think...you know, that it was _magic_. But that's not possible, you know? I mean, she can say whatever she wants, magic's not real."

True, magic was most certainly not real, as far as Danny knew. So then what the hell was going on? Zombies and levitating guns, bubble shields and beams of light killing a man with a simple touch, giants and glass tops that made loud pitched noises...logically, what did it all mean? Nothing, as far as they could see. The more they looked for logic, the more something came along to completely dislodge it. It was becoming maddening. All they could really do was try their best to keep their heads.

And as it stood, he thought as he glanced again at the headless corpse wrapped in the blanket, that was starting to become a bit of a problem to do.

* * *

Will found Morrison sitting on an ammo crate, his head in his hands, facing the setting sun. Wordlessly, he sat next to his friend, which startled him as he realized he was no longer alone. The red-headed Irishman smiled and handed his friend a thin chocolate bar, which the Scotsman accepted.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked.

Morrison quietly chewed on the bar, grateful it was not one of the brick-hard ration bars, but the chocolate did nothing to calm his nerves. His friend examined his shaky hands, nerve wracked with adrenaline and incoming fatigue. Morrison's face was one of agony, and he looked like a lost little child separated from his parents.

"That prisoner we took the other day...she's the one who killed Lucas," he admitted, and without looking up he could feel Will shifting next to him. "I couldn't control myself, I was just so angry...but she was just a little girl..."

He looked up at his friend, eyes glistening. "How does something like that happen? How does a girl that young get so corrupted that she'll just kill anyone with no regret? And what could I have done differently to keep her from meeting that fate?"

Will, unfortunately, had no answers. As a boy growing up in Southern Ireland he had heard the stories of the civil wars in his country, of the IRA vs. Northern Ireland, of his grandfather fighting in that war, and of the stories he came back with. Fathers and sons had been pitted against each other, brothers had been killing each other without even realizing it. He had heard of families being torn apart by the war, some never to be repaired, others being repaired only after many years had passed. He had heard all of this, and yet even with those stories, the answers to those questions were far outside of his grasp. Because there really was no answer; nothing that could be said to make sense of it, or taking away the pain of having to deal with it.

"Dunno, mate," he finally said. "Maybe everything. Maybe something. Maybe nothing."

Morrison wiped his eyes clear. He had killed men before, oh God yes, but never anything that hit him as hard as this girl had.

"God, if the rest of her mates are the same as she was...I don't think I can fight them. I don't think I could bring myself to do that again, you know?"

"Well," Will shrugged, "if you did it once, you could probably do it again. Worst thing about this line of business is that you get used to it."

He was right, of course he was. But just because one got used to it did not mean they had to like it. And no matter how many people Morrison killed, man or woman, young or old, he would never, ever like it.

* * *

On the other side of camp, Wallace was staring out into the night sky. It was only dark blue, not yet black, and the moon was only starting to crack over the horizon, but the stars were already starting to appear, their beauty tonight bringing no comfort to him.

His pistol, the one that had almost killed him today, was a gift to him from his father before he had shipped out here. It had his name and his date of graduation from the officer's academy imprinted on the side. Where he had gotten it or how he had paid for it was still a mystery to him, and questions he one day planned to ask whenever he was home to visit, but it had always been a positive symbol for him, as it represented the healed relationship between himself and his father, which had been strained for most of his life up until he reached high school.

His father was a good man, but when Scott was growing up he had been away on business often. He had grown up in his mother's care, and had resented his father, who had a very impatient temper at times. He had never been beaten, or at least, had never received anything worse than the occasional back of the hand whenever his father's patience was too far gone. His mother had babied him, something he never hated her for, but it did make him somewhat of a target growing up, something his father tried-and failed-to correct.

And then come high school, it shifted. Scott began to stand up for himself, managed to grow up on his own accord. His relationship with his father slowly but surely began to increase with time, as they found things that they could relate to, be them television shows or the game; Scott himself was not a big football fan, but watching it with his father was always enjoyable. He turned into a man on his own terms, something his father was proud of. They still fought, what parent and child did not fight, but there was no more resentment towards the old man, no anger whatsoever.

When he graduated from the academy, the night before he shipped out to be with his company, his father had pulled him onto the porch and shared a beer with him. They sat in silence for seventeen minutes, and he counted every second before his old man finally reached behind him and pulled out a small wooden box. Inside was the pistol, as shiny and smooth as it was today, with the engravings already carved in.

"Scott," he had said, "when you're out there, and you're afraid of what is out there, and you're feeling alone, just hold onto this and remember that there's a family here waiting for you. Remember that and you'll be fine."

Now, however, instead of feeling warm when looking at the pistol, all Wallace could think about was how this pistol had almost killed him today. That was what bothered him the most; not the girl, not what she said, not even the brutal massacre that had occurred hours ago. Just the fact that he had almost died at the point of his own gun.

He heard movement to his right and moments later felt Port sit next to him. Neither man spoke. A line had been crossed, and he had ended up on one side of the line and his friend had ended up on the other side, and it was going to take a while before they were both on the same side. For as much as they had endured, the events of today were not going to just erase themselves over night.

"Well?" he finally asked, surprised at the hoarseness in his voice.

"Price and Keaney both report running into a group of people in the desert that attacked them," came the weary reply; Port sounded just as exhausted as he did. "Thing of it is, the people were already dead when they found them. They tried to get close enough to strangle them to death."

If he had expected some sort of reaction from his superior, he did not receive one. Scott said nothing, his gaze still on his pistol.

"Scott, Price said they were attacked by dead men. How is that possible?"

"How is it possible for my gun to leave its holster, cock its hammer, and pull the trigger to almost put a bullet in my head without a hand to hold it?" Scott asked in return, finally looking up at his lieutenant. "You saw it before I did. My gun floated in mid-air. Three days ago our base was destroyed in the most phenomenal and terrible method I have ever seen on the battle field, without so much as a warning. How is _that_ possible?"

His lieutenant said nothing. Scott returned to look at his gun, at his name engraved in the side.

"We can dismiss her claim of magic all we want, and we probably should," he continued. "But we can't deny that there's something going on, something we can't explain, something they have that we don't. And that, Bill, is what scares me most. Because what they can do, I don't think I can prepare for. And if I can't, how can I prepare my men for it?"

Port opened his mouth, possibly to comfort, possibly to provide an answer, but ended up not providing anything but more silence. What they had seen today had unnerved him as well, and if there was more of this ahead, then they were going to have one hell of a fight on their hands.

It was a thought that stayed after them long after they finally turned in for the night, and for several days afterwards.

* * *

Again, this chapter would have been uploaded much sooner had my hard drive not crashed with all of my files lost with it. Here's hoping it doesn't happen again.

Quick little fun fact:

Wes Brown, the Manchester United defender, made his debut on May 4th, 1998. The day before that, Justin Fashanu, who at the time played for the Atlanta Ruckus, was found dead in a locked-up garage hanging from his neck over sexual assault allegations that he did not commit, having committed suicide believing he would be found guilty. He died on May 2nd, 1998.

May 2nd, of course, being the day recorded in the timeline of the Final Battle between Harry and Voldemort, that same year.

Just an interesting little factoid.

Hope you enjoyed, and see you next time.

Pea soup.


	9. The Winged Horse

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** This chapter goes a bit more into J.K.'s territory in regards to magical creatures, but I'm not really trying to take what J.K. wrote for this, because, again, they are not aware of how the magical world works. I'm probably wasting words by saying this; you guys are smart, you can probably figure this stuff out.

Enjoy.

* * *

The Winged Horse

* * *

"Alright, lads, _pull_!"

Stern watched as the combination of Englishmen and Frenchmen pulled the rope that was tied to the long, metal pole with the dish attached to the end of it and a transmitter taped to the side. Slowly, with much effort, they got it up so that it was straight up into the sky. Two of the men then grabbed the pole and thrust it downward as far as it would go into the sand.

So it was that Wallace and Charlie found them on that dune that morning on their patrol. It was an interesting sight, seeing twenty soldiers hoisting up one pole with a heavy dish, the wires from the dish spiraling downwards and leading off towards Stern's truck just a few feet away. At the foot, Hirko and Weber watched the spectacle with amused expressions. They approached Stern as he began writing down in his notepad.

"Everything alright up here, Mikey?" the captain asked.

"Just setting up comms, Captain," the techie said, looking up and down the makeshift tower. "Trying to boost the signal to get the call out to Command."

"Think it will help?"

"The way I see it, sir, the reason we're not getting through to them is because our signal's not strong enough. If we can boost our reception from a higher point, we might be able to bounce the signals better. Best way would be triangulate the source, but I only had enough materials for one dish. This way, I think I might be able to get across. Not _guaranteed_, mind you, but it should hopefully get the job done."

Which was good news for them. Communication with Command was a step in the right direction to getting home. They could order in supplies, request possible reinforcements, and, if possible, get evacuated to a friendly base, or falling short of that, be given the coordinates to where the nearest friendly forces were located. Communication was critical in the field, and while they could still manage without it, soldiers relied on higher orders, and without them things got hairy often.

"So will it work?" came the next question, this time from Charlie.

"We don't know until we try," came the answer. "Frankly, I'm not saying anything definite, there's too many factors to judge to give a guarantee. But it should at least give our signal a boost."

"Michael,"François came up, holding what looked like radio batteries, "_j'ai trouvé les noyaux d'émetteur-récepteur disponibles mais je ne pense pas qu'ils travaillent bien assez-_"

"Yeah, okay, François, that's lovely. Go do your job now." Stern waved his French partner away, focusing on his own work, when Hirko called back to him.

"He says your transceiver cores are not working properly," he said, while Weber shook his head and chuckled. "He also says your French needs work." That one was not true, but what the Irishman did not know would not hurt him.

"I'll focus on one thing at a time, Lieutenant, but thank you," Stern replied, trying his best to fake a smile. As much disdain as he held towards their French comrades, Hirko was a lieutenant and a superior, and he had to show respect to a superior.

The soldiers had finished positioning the beam and tying it down to poles hammered into the sand. Stern pulled out his transceiver and began dialing in.

"Alright, now we try to test the signal and see if it's strong enough to-"

CRASH!

No sooner had it gone up than it suddenly was hit at the top by something, so hard that the dish flew off and almost took off Francois's head. He, along with most of his comrades and half the Englishmen, hit the ground as the pole wobbled and swung due to the sudden impact, what had caused it still unknown to the men.

"Grab the ropes!" Stern called out.

The English jumped to their feet and grabbed for the ropes, to no avail. The pole started to fall backwards, first leaning slowly, then picking up speed as it descended. The soldiers underneath all yelped and rolled or dove out of the way as the pole impacted against the sand, sending streams of it shooting out. It fully landed just feet away from where Hirko and Weber were standing, watching on. The two commanders barely even flinched.

Weber looked down at the pole, then to Hirko. "What do you suppose that was?"

Hirko shook his head. _"La stupidité, je penserais."_

His comrade shook his head.

"Either speak English or German, my friend," he said. "For otherwise, I cannot understand you."

Wallace stood on top of a sand dune and surveyed the scene. The collapse had kicked up sand everywhere, and all of their men were covered in it. The younger men all had frightened expressions on their faces, while the older one were more alert. But everyone looked alright, at least, as far as he could see.

Sully had come over and was standing off to his right, his M-60 strapped around him, his wide eyes surveying the scene.

"Blimey," he whispered.

"Everyone alright? Anyone hurt?" Wallace called out.

"We're good, Captain!" called out Sergeant Grimes, as he helped Tucker to his feet, his glasses covered in sand.

"The hell was that, even?" demanded Terry, his G-3 trained on the sky in case there was an aerial attack. "Mortar? Rocket?"

"Would have made an explosion." Grimes readied his rifle as well, looking up at the sky. "Sounded like something ran into it."

Scott looked out at the surrounding area, but could not see any signs of whatever had attacked them, if anything had really attacked them. The way it had sounded, it had almost sounded like something had flown into it, like an eagle or a vulture. But that was a damn big vulture, if that was the case.

He was so intent on his search that he failed to look the one place where he would have found answers- right behind him. The purpose was so close to him that it was almost touching the back of his head, staring intently at him. It shook his head rapidly, the movement not felt by the captain.

It was, however, seen by Sully, who still stood off to Wallace's right and who looked at the thing when it made its movement. His eyes immediately went wide.

"WOAH _WOAH_!" he shouted, lifting his machine-gun.

Scott turned around and immediately jumped backwards upon seeing the creature. He pulled out his pistol and aimed it as the rest of the men aimed their rifles. Those with M-4s had their laser targeting turned on, and various places of its body had red dots on it to position where the shots would be landed once the word was given.

The thing they all stared at, wide-eyed and with dropped mouths, was only a horse, but it was the strangest looking horse they had ever seen in their lives. It was massive, about more than half the size of a regular horse. Its skin and hair were both black, but its skin was not really skin, but a glossy, translucent coat, so much that they could actually see the bone definition. The mane was flowing and the tail at the end was long and bushy. Its fangs were prominent when it opened its mouth, but when closed he looked gentle, peaceful. Its eyes were milk-white and dead-looking. Its most prominent feature, however, were the bat-like wings that protruded out of its back, furled up to show it was not planning on flying off.

They all gaped at it, while it simply stared back at them. It didn't look like it wanted to attack them...but it looked smart, or at least, gave off the appearance of being smart. And there had been too many things in the last week to make them question what was friend or foe. They needed to be sure.

"Charlie."

His clerk looked at him.

"Go check it out."

Charlie looked as though he wanted to turn and run. He raised a scared eyebrow.

"Go ahead, lad. We'll cover you."

He looked at the horse and gulped loudly. The rest of their men readied their weapons.

Slowly, the twenty-two-year-old clerk from Manchester approached the horse, his M-4 not leaving its trained spot just above his left front knee. A bead of sweat trailed down the side of his face as his weapon trembled in his hands. The horse did not seem to make any move; it just stared at the poor boy as he approached. He gulped.

Ever so gently he reached forward and touched the nose of the creature. It snorted, and he drew his hand instantly away, but when a few seconds had passed and it did not make a move towards him, again he touched the nose and then lightly rubbed the front of its nose. He then rubbed the side of its face, and then down the side of its neck.

He exhaled in relief and turned to the captain and nodded. Everyone else lowered their weapons, some hesitantly, still on edge.

"Where the hell did this come from?" Sully pondered, stepping closer. "Is it native, do you think?"

"Dunno...Charlie, what is it, exactly?" Wallace also stepped closer, handgun back in its holster.

"A horse, sir, as far as I can tell." Charlie was now examining its wings, fingers treading lightly over the greasy feathers. "Looks a little peakish. Might need some food and water. Do we have any to spare, d'ya think?"

"Talk to Archie about that. Does it need medical attention?"

"I don't know, sir. Can't hurt to have Doc take a look."

"Alright, get whatever you need, but try not to use too much of it. Don't forget our situation."

"I won't, sir. Come on, you."

Charlie slung his rifle over his shoulder and stepped back, clapping his hands and beckoning it to follow him. At first, nothing. Then, to just about everyone's amazement, the horse took a step, then another, then slowly trotted after the clerk as he led him along to the medical shed.

Sully stood next to the captain, looking after the sight dumbfounded.

"Sir, what-"

"I don't know," came the immediate reply. "I have no idea."

"_Dammit to hell!"_

Stern looked at his now-bent antennae pole in dismay.

"Look at this!" he proclaimed. "Look at what this thing did!"

"Can you fix it?"

"Not the transmitter," he replied, holding up the two pieces of the transmitter. "Broken in two. I'm gonna need a new one, and I don't have it. We only have one spare, and last I knew François had it, but good luck if you can figure out where it is on his side."

"Alright, check with the French, see if they have it. Take François with you."

Stern glared at his French associate and sighed. Dealing with one foreigner was one nuisance, but dealing with all of them? Well, if it meant them getting home, he would deal with it, but God in Heaven, he would hate it.

"Aye, Captain," was his only response. He beckoned to François, who though he did not know any English knew sign language well enough, and the two technicians were off towards the Frenchman's part of camp.

The rest of the men began to bugger off, except for Wallace and Sully, who stood there and watched them all leave. Sully looked at his commanding officer. He was a respected member of the company, had good relationships with enlisted and officers alike, and as such a lot of the higher-ups often listened to his reasoning, whether it was asked or not. _You should have been made sergeant by now, Sully_, Scott thought then, not for the first time.

"Mikey's not happy with that," he noted.

"Well, he needs to learn to get along with them eventually," Scott said. "I've heard the things he's been saying, and I know the lieutenant doesn't like hearing them. They don't have to like each other, but they need to learn to get along."

* * *

The first men Stern found were Renald Sanxay, the French machine-gunner, and his assistant Alistar Moreau. They were outside of their tent, their machine-gun laid out on a blanket for cleaning. They both looked up at Stern and François approached them.

"_Bonjour, François," _Sanxay waved. The French technician waved back.

"Alright, froggies, listen up." Stern took a knee and looked them both in the eye. "Transmitter. I need one. I know you guys have a spare. The French communications are on the same level as ours, you must have a spare. I don't know if you two have it, if François has it, or if one of the others has it, and François has no idea what I'm talking about. So one of you needs to come out with it, right now. Cough it up. Who has it?"

Both Frenchmen stared at him, blinked at him, then turned to each other.

"_Qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?"_ Moreau asked.

"_Je ne sais pas,"_ Saxnay looked at François, _"__qu'est-ce qu'il a dit?"_

Françoisshrugged. _"Je ne sais pas."_

Stern looked from him to the other two, and in an instant realized what was happening. Without a warning to them he screamed in frustration, so loud that Moreau jumped and fell over in the hole. The Irishman walked a few feet away and shouted up to the heavens.

"_What_?" he shrieked. "_What did I do, huh? I should be at Oxford inventing a longer-lasting light bulb or the cure to world hunger or teaching advanced physics or something! Instead I'm in the middle of the bloody desert with the Three Bloody Stooges, none of which can understand a bloody word I'm saying!_"

"_Bonjour, Sergent-Chef Callard_."

Stern turned to see Roger Callard, the second-in-command of the French unit, approach his men with his Enfield strapped over his shoulder. A short man with thick eyebrows and an even thicker blue-eyed gaze, he had a hawk-like nose and a prominent jaw, and was a man none of the French wanted to cross. A man with a short, fiery temper, his outbursts were well noted by the other nationalities of the camp. He was very strict, even by a command sergeant's standards, and put the French to work harder than Lieutenant Hirko did. Stern had never interacted with him personally, and with his history of outbursts he was in no hurry to, but he was the best chance at the moment to help.

"Sergeant," he strode over to him. The sergeant looked up at him. "Okay, here's what I need-" As he spoke, he used his hands to mime what he wanted done; he figured that Callard, like the others, knew no English.

"I," he pointed to himself, "am looking for a transmitter...uh, it's kind of like a phone," he mimed talking on the phone, "because ours," he pointed to himself again, "was hit," he had his right fist hit his left palm at a fast speed, "by a flying horse," he imitated a flying creature, using his arms as wings, "and was smashed in two." He mimed breaking something in two. "Now, you," he pointed to the sergeant, "have the spare transmitter," again he mimed talking on a phone, "that I," he thumbed to himself, "need. If you," he pointed to the sergeant, "could get your men," he pointed to François, Sanxay, and Moreau, "to find it for me," he mimed scanning the desert, having one hand above his eyes, then thumbing to himself, "so I can call command," again he mimed a phone conversation, "and get us all rescued," he put his hands together and looked at the sky, either praying or miming salvation. "Okay?"

Callard blinked, still staring at him, not making a move and not showing any emotion on his face. Stern hung his head and sighed.

"Look, I know you don't understand a thing I'm saying, but can you at least acknowledge that you know what I'm talking about-"

"No, I understand you. You just look like a fucking idiot."

Stern's head shot back up, eyes wide, mouth dropping open. Callard stared back, still not showing an expression short of a raised eyebrow.

"What?" he asked.

"You...speak English..." And not English with a French accent, or even a British accent. The sergeant sounded like an American.

"Yeah. Better than you, by the sound of it," Callard retorted, imitating Stern's futile attempt at charades.

Stern could not even reply to that. He had never known that the sergeant knew any English whatsoever. Then again, the only ones he had ever seen him interact with were his own people, unlike Hirko, who frequently spoke to Captain Wallace and the Russian and German commanders. And it was not like Stern himself had ever gone out of his way to speak to the French soldiers, so he had no idea if any of them knew his language. He had just been schooled today.

Callard turned to the machine-gunners. "_Allez voir le camp_ _pour le émetteur_. _Hâtez, hâtez, allons-y!_"

"_Oui, Sergent-Chef Callard_!" All three French soldiers immediately jumped to their feet and hurried off to search their camp.

Callard turned back to Stern, who still stared at him dumbfounded.

"_What_?" he demanded, his annoyance rising.

"You...speak English..._well_."

"Yeah. I'm Quebec-born. Grew up in Brooklyn. Probably spent more time in the States than you have, ya lousy mick."

The Irishman tried to speak, but no words came out. Callard took a step towards him so that they were almost eye to eye.

"Since I seem to have your attention," he said in a low voice, "my men may not hear or understand the things you say about them, but I do. And I don't appreciate you treating my guys like a bunch of foreigners. Just remember that we're the ones covering and supporting you in a firefight. You keep this shit up, I'm gonna make sure the next time something goes down, we leave your ass out to dry for the rebels to get at it. Not the rest of your company; just _you_. Got it?"

Stern just nodded, unable to say anything else. Of course, the knowledge that his disdain for their French comrades had reached an English-speaking Frenchman's ears had not been a thought to him. He would have to be a bit more careful now.

"Good," said Callard, not convinced, but at least satisfied that his message had reached the ears.

François and the two machine-gunners returned after a time, all three of them empty handed.

"_Sergent-Chef_," François said, "_Les Russes l'ont pris pour essayer et pousser le pouvoir de radio de leurs tanks__._"

"What he say?" Stern asked, finally finding his voice, and taking comfort in knowing that at least now he had some means of translation.

"He said the Russians took it to boost their tank's radio signal,"Callard responded, nodding to his men in dismissal. Then he turned back to the Irishman. "So there you go. You want your transmitter so bad, take it up with the Rooskies."

He gave him one final glare and took off. Stern made another mental note, on top of going to him for future translating, to never let him hear any other bad thing he said about the French men.

But now he had to go talk to the Russians, and that idea made him sigh again. Wordlessly, he beckoned to François and the two technicians took off for the third nationality in their company.

* * *

Jason, Terry, and Tucker sat and watched as Charlie attempted to feed the giant winged horse, all three of them with blank expressions. They did not know which was weirder; that there was a deceased-looking horse with wings in their compound, or that their clerk was looking after the deceased-looking horse with wings in their compound.

"No one's even questioning what it is," Terry remarked. "I don't get it."

"Well...you know how they talk about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?" asked Tucker.

"Yeah."

"Maybe that's one of their horses."

Terry and Jason, at the same time in an almost comical way, frowned and slowly turned their heads towards their third member. Tucker turned to them and shrugged.

"Just a thought," he said uncertainly. The other two turned back, shaking their heads.

Then they watched as Doc approached them with his medical bag and a pack of steak tips, where he had gotten the latter a mystery to them. He seemed undaunted or even unafraid by the giant winged dead horse that was on the outskirts of their compound, though whether or not it surprised them anymore, none of them knew.

Doc was a little weary of this creature that Charlie was petting as though it were a dog at home, but if it was not hurting the clerk it probably would not hurt the medic. Hopefully. He had with him the steak tips he had won in a poker match the last time he was on leave in Ireland, had been holding it for a specific occasion (his birthday was in three months time). He had kept it in a cooler with Archie's stuff, but it wouldn't keep the meat good for long, and no time like the present, right?

"Here's the supplies," he told Charlie, placing his bag down. "And I figured he'd want a special treat."

"Thanks," Charlie said, not taking his eyes off the horse. The medic nodded towards it.

"Eerie looking thing, innit?" he asked. "Where do you think it came from?"

"Not sure...it doesn't look like it was bred in the desert, maybe it was brought here or something. Do you think it'd like this stuff raw?"

"Well, we'll find out, I suppose."

Charlie cut open the pack with his bayonet and pulled out one of the steak tips. He and the horse eyed each other, as he held it out towards him. The creature leaned forward, sniffed at the raw meat, then hungrily snatched it into its mouth. The clerk pulled his hand back as it messily devoured the tip. It let out a weird screeching noise, both irritating their ears and pulsing their nerves into wondering if this was what would make it hostile. But then it settled back down, and sniffed towards the rest of the pack.

"Well," Doc said, after waiting a few moments to see if anything else would happen, "I guess it's okay with raw meat, then."

His friend laughed, and tossed another steak tip at it. Doc watched him as he pet the creature as he ate. He never really understood Charlie's strong connection with animals; he knew the lad had grown on a farm, but even still, it was almost as though he spoke their language. Especially with a creature like this...

"He's good with you," he noted. "I always pictured wild horses biting anyone that came near it."

"Any horse will be good to you if you feed it and treat it well," Charlie replied, petting the nose. "Dad had a herd of horses on the farm, he had them trained for races and competitions and stuff like that. I used to go and help him feed them; used to bite me as a kid because I didn't know the proper way to handle them. Once Dad showed me, it was easy, though. Horses can be your best friend if you just treat them right."

He threw a third steak tip at the horse and sat back. "There was this one horse, Thunder, he was one of Dad's fastest and most prized horses. Won three races and a number of competitions. I loved that horse. He was the friendliest horse you ever met, he did anything asked of it. There were a lot of times where I was down and I would just ride him around my fields and feel better."

Doc watched his face and saw that he was not there, not entirely; he was back at his ranch, imagining riding that horse through the plains of his farm in England, away from all the troubles of war.

"Thunder, I swear...it was like he understood me, you know? This one time, I came home from school after a bad day- got a bad test grade, lost my lunch somewhere, this arsehole had pushed me over when I was walking off the bus- and I got to the door and there he was, standing there by the fence with his harness in his teeth, waiting for me to ride him."

The medic raised an eyebrow and laughed. "What, was it a dog?"

"I literally did a double-take when I saw it. It was like a dog waiting for you to take it for a walk. So I put my bag down, saddled him up, and we rode around for an hour and a half. And that was a common thing, whenever I had a bad or less than average day, I'd just take the horse out and go for a ride. It got to the point where I felt he only listened to me."

"I'll bet you're really looking forward to getting back home to see him, then."

Doc thought that would be a point of comfort for the clerk, to have a nice thought of home to concentrate on while they were out here. Charlie, however, did not smile. He took out the final piece of steak and gave it to the horse in front of him. He watched it eat, looking suddenly sullen.

"He, uh...he threw a shoe when I was seventeen," he explained, finally looking at him. "Then he just kept getting sick. We...put him down after I turned eighteen."

"Oh..." The medic suddenly felt a lot worse. "Sorry, mate."

"It's alright, I mean, he was old at that point. Really old. He lived a good, long life, you know?"

Still, it was never fun when a pet died, especially one you had such a great bond with. And Charlie always had a great bond with animals of all kinds. Being that kind of person had to be hard, Doc imagined, because that kind of person took each death personally.

They sat in silence, and the discomfort seemed to grow as Charlie dug his feet in the sand. He wanted to say something, Doc was certain about that, but what it was he could not guess. He was no psychiatrist, and his bedside manner was atrocious, and all he could do was let him talk instead.

Finally Charlie spoke, his voice a little shaky.

"Can I...tell you something?" he asked.

The medic frowned. "Sure, what?"

"I'm warning you, you're going to think I'm insane."

"Yeah, like the rest of us aren't already going nuts after the other night. Just say it, mate, it's fine."

Charlie sighed, took his hat off and ran his hands through his hair.

"I think...I think it's Thunder..."

Doc raised an eyebrow. "You think..._what,_ is Thunder?"

Hesitantly, Charlie lifted his hand and pointed his finger at the horse, who had finished its meal and was licking the tip of the clerk's finger.

"You think...this horse is..._your_ horse?"

"I know it sounds nutters-"

"Charlie...Thunder _died_, you just told me that."

"I know, but... it feels like him, you know? I can't explain it properly, but...it's a feeling I've got...that it's him, that he's come back to see me. You get it?"

No, Doc thought, he did not get it, and it probably was okay that he did not. At any rate, he did not think Charlie was crazy for it; he had, after all, seen perfectly sane soldiers react to things in the exact same way. But it was still slightly dangerous, because if he could start thinking things like this, then those thoughts might evolve into something else, something more dangerous, and that was what he was not okay with.

He wanted Charlie to make it home. He had everything going for him; a supportive family waiting for him, a good job with his name on it, his girlfriend Katie who he was absolutely nuts over and whom whenever he thought of he would reach into his jacket pocket for that ring he kept around for that special time when he got home and saw her. Yeah, he was young, but so where they all, and what better time than after cheating death time and again? The last thing Doc wanted to see was his friend have to endure psychoanalysis because of this.

"Charlie," he said, "you know we can't keep him with us."

Charlie nodded sadly. "I know. Once he's good to go, I'll let him go on his way. Sorry, it was just...it was a nice thought."

In a way, it could have been Thunder, or the spirit of Thunder, in this dead-looking winged form. Maybe...if you believed that sort of thing. Doc had never been much of a believer, but Charlie had some, and maybe he believed in that sort of guardian angel thing.

He supposed it was nice to think about. He himself preferred the world of common sense and logic. But it was a nice thought regardless.

* * *

The French he showed contempt for, but the Russians Stern just avoided going near altogether, and for one reason: they scared the absolute piss out of him.

There were only six of them left, but unfortunately they all belonged to Bakunin's personal tank and that crew was the scariest. They were loud, boisterous, rude, and extremely dirty; all of them were, at this point, even himself, but Stern had to wonder if this lot had ever bathed since their deployment. And above all, at least to him, they were mean, meaner than rebels or men in black cloaks.

But nevertheless, Stern and François approached the Russian tankers as they were huddled next to their tank, having some coffee and laughing. The closer he got, the more terrified he got, just because of their reputation; he had heard scary things about those Russian tankers in the field, and while he could not vouch for them personally, what he knew of them was no wonder why Russian tankers were so feared on the battlefield.

Mikhail Voronin was the first one to spot him. He was a stick thin man of thirty with a pointed face and a sullen expression. Of all of them, Stern had never seen him utter a single word, not even a grunt; he was always hanging in the back and always quiet, constantly chewing on wad of cud and occasionally spitting it onto the ground. He was the tank's driver, and as such was more alert than he let on, but still usually looked bored, like he was about to fall asleep.

He got the others attention and nodded to the approaching technicians. Great, Stern thought, now they were aware of him. And indeed, they had stood up to greet him now, their six feet of pure muscle and girth intimidating him, despite him being as tall if not taller but being thin as a twig, no threat at all.

Sergi Popov, the tank's machine-gunner, stood at the front, with his arms folded. The shortest of the pack, though still only five foot eight, all the hair had left his head and had jumped down to his face. His great big black beard was his pride and joy, to make up for the fact that the top of his head had become as bald, as round, and as shiny as an egg before he had turned twenty-five. A beefy man who had worked in a butcher's shop before joining the Russian Tank Corps, he was as loud and as boisterous as the stereotypical Russian that Stern had heard about from the old men in his family who had fought during World War II.

"Yes?" he asked in his very thick Russian accent.

"We, uh..." Stern gulped. Why did they have to be so intimidating? They were not doing anything, it was not like they were gonna string him up by his feet and beat him...yet. He would not be surprised if they did that.

"We were told that, uh...that you had the spare transmitter-"

"Ah, yeah, that hunk of junk," laughed Dmitri Serov, shaking his head. Tall, lean, and with a black goatee, he along with Viktor Katzinsky worked the primary tank cannon, with him working as the assistant and Katzinsky working as the shooter. He was outgoing and seemed to be the most friendly of the group, although compared to the behaviors of the others that was not saying much.

Katzinsky hung back, sipping what looked like very dark, very bland coffee judging by the facial expressions every time he took a sip. A man with wild blonde hair and a bad ear due to years spent behind a tank's main cannon, he had the sharpest eyes and the quickest reaction times. He was Bakunin's personal tank gunner for a reason, and that reason was because he had proven himself time and again as someone who would not hesitate to get a job done.

"That hunk of 'junk' is what's going to get us home," Stern said, a tad annoyed by the remark. "We need it back."

"We tried to use it to boost our own signal, and it didn't work," Popov explained, not budging an inch. "Raz thinks there's something jamming us."

"Or it could just be that your tank's radio isn't compatible with a transceiver that's meant for long-wave broadcasting. It's two different wavelength frequencies, just because they both transmit doesn't mean pairing them together would guarantee a further transmission."

He supposed he could not blame them for not knowing; they were tank crew, not radio technicians. Still, one of them should know that trying to use a long-range transmitter to boost a tank radio signal- a radio that was usually only meant to communicate with other tanks, not with a base seven hundred miles away- was probably a bad idea.

His tone probably could have been better, however, for the Russians had started to stand and move closer towards him in a very menacing way. Popov brow furrowed. Stern gulped. His courage had left him as fleetingly as it had come.

"Uh...what I meant by that was-"

"We are not as unintelligent as you think we are," Popov said, his voice a low growl. "We know how communications work."

"I'm sure you do," Stern agreed, inwardly doubting that they did. "Well, I'm on a bit of a tight schedule, so if I could just get that back-"

"He's shaking, Sergi," Katzinsky noted, with a slight chuckle. "I think you scare him."

"Listen, little man," Popov said, "I've seen you around. Acting like you're high and mighty because you're an Englishman-"

"Irish." Probably was not smart to correct him. Oh well.

"Making your remarks about those of us that aren't born under your queen. As if that makes us any less important. Well, let me remind you who runs this big beast" (he tapped his fist against the hull of the tank) "that saves your puny behind."

"Right, I will remember that, always. Scout's honor." Stern had never been a scout, but it seemed like a natural thing to say. "So...can I have the transmitter?"

Apparently that was not the right thing to say. Popov just looked, if possible, even more deadly. Out of the corner of his eye, Stern saw François start to back away; _thanks, you tosser_, he thought bitterly. He winced as the big Russian took another step towards him-

"What is going on here?"

Stern breathed a sigh of relief as Commander Bakunin and the sixth member of the crew and the mechanic, Arkady Razinsky, approached them. The commander looked from the tech crew to the tank crew and back, face stern. The legendary tank commander with the reputation that far proceeded him, Stern only hoped that he had some amount of patience for an Irish soldier wanting something from them.

Razinsky was a short, bald man with a bushy mustache. He was quiet, though not as quiet as Voronin, and he constantly was wiping his hands on a handkerchief to get the oil grease off him. Always he was wiping his hands, as if there was a stain he just could not get off no matter how hard he tried. He kept the tank in working condition, and if he was not seen with his crowd he was probably doing everything he could to keep it that way.

"Nothing, sir," Popov said, stepping back. "This Irishman was just-"

"Commander, sir, I'm looking for the spare transmitter, I was told your men had it," Stern interrupted, preferring to deliver his own message instead of have the Russian do it.

"Well?" Bakunin turned to his men. "Do we have it?"

Katzinsky and Serov turned away. Voronin chewed his gum without speaking. Popov looked down and dug the toe of his boot into the sand.

"Well?" Nicholai raised his voice at this demand.

"We, uh...we gave it away."

"_What_?" Stern demanded.

"To whom?"

Popov didn't answer.

"To _who_, Sergi?"

The gunner sighed. "Weber and Riley, sir."

The technician frowned. "Why did you give it to them?"

"They wanted to see if they got reception from their perch," Popov answered with a shrug.

Stern just hung his head and sighed. Clearly they had no idea how this worked.

"Right," Bakunin turned to him, "Go check with Weber for your transmitter. He should have it."

"Yes, sir." Stern grabbed François and took off, ignoring the stares the other Russians were giving him as he left. That was close, a bit too close for his liking. In hindsight, they probably would not have done anything to him, not physically anyway. But one never knew when dealing with an angry Russian tank crew. One never knew.

* * *

Weber, he liked. He could say that honestly, despite the allegations thrown his way of being racist, that he did quite enjoy the German team's company. Despite their appearance and their reputation, they were friendly and willing to talk if approached. The French he thought were dim, the Russians barbaric, but the Germans, despite the history between their countries, were good company.

He found Weber and Riley in their trench, which had a blanket raised up on four sticks to provide a roof canopy. Against mortar rounds or rockets, it would provide no comfort at all. Against the sun, it did the job quite well.

Riley was cleaning the chamber of his bolt-action L96A1 with his cleaning rod. Although he was the youngest of the team at twenty-nine, he was the second oldest in terms of seniority, and as such was Weber's right-hand man. They had been together a long time; how long, Stern could not be sure, but long enough to be entirely comfortable around each other and work amazingly well together. Like Weber, he had eyes that could see anything, and a deadly accurate aim, no shake or sway to his hands at all. He was polite and friendly, not overly talkative but could have a good conversation, and had a gentle disposition. Stern sometimes thought he belonged in the Peace Corps instead of the German Spec Ops, but hey, they were glad to have him.

"Hello, Michael," Weber greeted, his own WA2000 rifle in his lap with a cleaning cloth on it. "Did Captain Wallace send you here for inspection?"

"Commander Bakunin, actually. We're looking for the spare transmitter, we were told you had it?"

"Ah, yes," Riley reached over to his side of the hole, where his stuff was laid out on a large towel. He took an item bundled up in cloth and handed it to them. "We keep it wrapped up so that sand doesn't get into it."

"Smart." Stern unwrapped it to be sure, and there it was, looking shiny and brand new. Their ticket out of there. Hopefully.

"You guys know you wouldn't have been able to get much in ways of transmission, right?" he asked, looking back at them. "This kind of radio has to be used with other parts in order to boost a better signal, one that can get over the dunes. Sitting farther from camp won't help it."

"Probably," Weber agreed, "but we thought to give it a try anyway. Who knows?"

"Web, it's not as easy as that. You've got to take the terrain and elemental factors into the equation as well. Add in we don't know exactly how far away we are from command, how strong we need to boost the signal, what frequency to use that will ensure it gets put up. It's all math, mate."

"Maybe, maybe," the sniper leaned forward, "but how much of it can also be accounted towards dumb luck?"

Stern looked at François for assistance, but the Frenchman could not understand a word of what was being said anyway, so that was useless. He just shrugged.

"I've seen many things, Michael, some of which defy all logic. Even to the well-developed mind, there is always hope for things to go in your favor."

"Yeah, well," he raised the transmitter, "hopefully that's true. I guess we'll find out."

He bid them farewell and left with François on his heel. All that, and all he had to do was go to the one nationality he tolerated other than his own. And all without a hassle from either sniper.

_It'd probably go well with the others_, he thought,_ if you weren't such a tool to them_. But like that was his fault? The problem was that he was impatient and had a low tolerance for nonsense, and in his eyes, the French and the Russians presented too much of that. It was not his fault the French were not taught English. It was not his fault the Russians were a bit thick.

Well, maybe he could work on things on his end. Unlikely, but he could try.

* * *

The sun was starting to set now, the sky already turning colors. Charlie and Doc were standing on the edge of camp with the winged horse, about to wave it off. They had fed it and given it a proper medical examination; they had done all the could, and now they had to let it free.

Charlie reached forward to pat the horse on the head, and then it did something they did not expect; it sank onto its knees and lowered its wings, allowing for clear access to its back. It looked up at the clerk with an expectant look, and Charlie upon realizing what it wanted did a bit of a double take.

He turned to Doc, who merely shrugged in response, as surprised by this as he was. He looked back, looked at the creature's eyes, and after a moment slung his backpack off and placed his rifle against it. Taking in a deep breath, he slung one leg over, then sat down on its back, in between the neck and the wings, and wondered if he should position himself better before it stood up, the wings were out, and he was suddenly no longer on the ground.

He clung to its neck, petrified, until he looked up and saw the most amazing sight imaginable. He had always enjoyed the sunset in the desert, the way the light shone on the sand and made it all look like glass, but now, seeing it from the air, it was like he had entered a whole new world. It was hard to believe it was the same ground he had walked and slept on all this time. The scene was utterly alien to him.

He looked down and there were his mates, men who from where he was looked like dots. He imagined that right now at least some of them were staring up at him with their mouths hanging wide open and their eyes almost bulging out of their skulls. Any other time he would be there with them, looking at the spectacle, but this time he was the spectacle, he was the center of attention, and somehow this filled him with immense joy.

The horse was flying towards the sun, the light almost blinding him. But he did something that he never did on another horse, not even on Thunder. He sat up straight, raised his arms, and embraced its warmth, almost hugging it if it were close enough. And he cheered, oh, he cheered, his voice carrying through the air and over the dunes and loud enough for anyone miles around to hear him. Not a yell of pain or fear, but one of joy and excitement, one of a little boy trapped in a grown man's body who was seeing the world for what it was, and it was beautiful.

They flew for only ten minutes, not a minute more, not a minute less, but by the end of those ten minutes, when they landed, Charlie was worn out, with a big tired smile etched on his face. Doc helped him off and no sooner did he than when the horse let out that weird growling noise it made, and just like that it flapped its wings and was off again.

The two soldiers watched it go off, watching for what felt like days, watching until the horse was nothing more than a black dot against the pink sky and then was out of sight completely. Doc pat his friend on the back, and Charlie without a word followed his friend to the mess line. Nothing more needed to be said.

Still, Charlie never quite shook the feeling that he had been given one more day with his beloved Thunder. It was probably not the case- ghosts and angels and that sort of thing was the stuff of stories, of make believe, not of reality- but still, it was nice to think about.

* * *

At last it was ready. At last it was all set. The transmitter was attached to the dish and the antennae had once more been raised and tied down. When it was secure, François went to the truck to confirm it with Stern.

"_Tout est prêt_," he said.

"Okay...I'm going to assume you said that everything was all set," Stern replied with a nod. He could have added a bit more snark to his sentence like he usually did, but after the day he had had, he was not in the mood for it. That, and now that he realized how far his words carried, he had to be a bit careful, lest he have half the camp down on his head.

He put his headset on and tuned into the frequency with shaky hands. This was their shot; if this failed, then all they could do was keep on driving until they found rescue. And who knew how long that would be?

"This is Charlie Two-Six to all near-by units, do you copy, over?" he said into the mic. No answer. "All near-by units, this is Charlie Two-Six, we are under siege and are in need of assistance, do you read me? This is Charlie Two-Six, please respond..."

Nothing but static. Stern and François shared a concern look. Was the signal strong enough? Would anyone hear it?

"This is Charlie Two-Six to all available units in the area, we are under attack by an unidentified force. We have sustained heavy casualties, our supplies are minimal. If you can hear me, please respond. We are in dire need of assistance, over."

François looked apprehensively at the radio. Stern hung his head. Then-

"_...mand...re...ou...wo-Six...ca...you rea...us, over_?"

Both heads looked up, at each other, then back at the radio. They had not imagined that voice...had they? No, they could not have. Their message had gotten through.

"Yes!" Stern clapped his hands while his French assistant cheered. "This is Charlie Two-Six, we read you, you're choppy but we read you. Can you clear up your signal, over?"

Once again, he was met with static. But he did not give up; someone was hearing them, and he was going to keep trying until he was certain they knew they were out there.

"This is Charlie Two-Six, do you-"

But then he stopped. He paused for a moment, face frozen as he tried to listen to...what? Something definitely felt off, he was sure of that. He looked up at François, who had opened the door and was looking outside and then he saw it.

His body, and François's, was shaking. So was the whole truck.

Something was making the ground rumble...

* * *

Quick translations for your everyday French:

François 1: Michael, I found the spare transceiver cores, but I do not think they are working that well.

Hirko: Stupidity, I imagine.

_Bonjour, François_: Hello, François (no brainer, even to the basic Englishman)

Moreau:What did he say?

Sanxay: I don't know

Callard:Search the camp for the transmitter. Hurry, hurry, let's go.

François 2: The Russians took it to boost their tank's radio signal.

_Oui_: Yes (again, probably didn't need me to say it.

François 3: Everything is ready.

Thanks to Andre for double-checking all this stuff for me.

So, what is making the ground rumble? Tune in next time to find out. Read, review, hope you enjoyed.

Pea soup.


	10. On the Road Again

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: T/M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** Finally picking up from the cliffhanger. Another long wait. School and stuff, y'know? Plus, this was kind of a stressful semester for me, with school and friend-related stuff. But anyway, here we go:

* * *

On the Road Again

* * *

It started low at first, the rumbling in the ground. If one was not paying attention to the slight vibrations they would miss it entirely, but the closer it got the more apparent it was. Men stopped their night time routines when they felt it and stood to look in the direction it was apparently coming from.

Captain Wallace and his lieutenants looked up from the map they had been pouring over when they felt the vibrations in the ground. The captain stuck his head out of the tent, frowning. What was _that_?

Danny had finally been going to sleep when he the rumblings snapped him out of his drowsiness. Beside him, Marek and Matthews had risen as well, both having reached for their weapons.

All around them, some soldiers were just waking up to the noise. Those who were already awake already had their weapons ready. Wallace stepped to the front of the group, hand at his side to reach for his pistol.

"Who's on guard right now?" he asked.

"Weaver and Murphy, sir," answered Lieutenant Hunter.

"Pull them back. Get them back here ASAP."

Hunter did not even have to move before they heard a shout and then a scream and then they heard an M-4 being fired in an automatic burst. Seconds later, Murphy and Private First Class Joshua Weaver barreled towards the camp, clutching their weapons close to them, their faces wild with fright. Weaver tripped over his feet and rolled to the end of the dune and was helped back up by two other soldiers. Murphy ran to the captain, eyes wide as dinner plates.

"S-s-s-sir," he stuttered. Wallace had never seen him shake so hard. "T-t-t-t-there a-a-are t-t-t-t-t-"

"Out with it lad, what is it?"

"C-c-c-coming t-this w-w-way, m-m-mu-hltiple t-t-t-t-t-"

"Multiple what, Murphy? Multiple _what_?"

"T-t-t...t-t-t-t..."

He did not finish, but as it turned out he did not need to, for Sully, having moved to the top of the dune to get a better look, finished it for him.

"_Tangos inbound! Multiple hostiles! Everyone take cover!_"

"Take cover!" Wallace called out as his men immediately dashed for some viable cover. On the dune, Sully had popped off a few rounds from his machine-gun, aiming, not firing off wildly, taking his time, before turning around and following the rest of them.

The rumblings in the ground were producing more noticeable vibrations. Scott gripped his M-4 and peered through his holographic sights. It did not feel like it had not a week ago; the ground had not shook on their last encounter. And he knew it was not rebels. So what was causing this?

A moment later, he found out.

With a kick of sand and a whirlwind of dust, a battalion of cavalry, men riding horses, clutching spears, and firing arrows from bows, rode over the dunes at full speed. The spectacle, which should have been humorous given the sheer fact that it was men on horses attacking them, was instead causing further panic as the men opened fire on them. They were a blur, so it was hard to see the men riding them, but he did not get the chance as an arrow shot past his head and he ducked his head behind his dune.

Chaos erupted as men ran and shot and ran and shot and did everything they could to avoid the hail of sharp objects being flung their way. Sully was firing his M-60 without respite, not taking cover, keeping aware but not daring to stop unless reloading for fear of letting his mates down. Finn fired from a concealed position, with Owen providing him some support and helping him reload when needed. Grimes and the platoon sergeants were shouting orders, trying to keep things together, but not having success as their men ran about the camp, and a wild game of Cowboys and Indians broke out.

Danny fired off a burst and then rolled out of the way as one of the horsemen almost ran over him. He leapt to his feet, fired off another burst, and ducked as one brought a spear right over his head. He was in the zone here, a complete machine, moving and ducking and shooting, just the way he had been taught. Despite his ankle still not fully recovered from the base assault, he was staying a moving target, and a deadly one; he was not going to give them a chance to kill him, and if they did get lucky, he would take as many of them with him as he possibly could.

He reloaded as quickly as possible, ejecting the spent clip and stuffing in a new one, and then felt himself back into a brick wall hard enough that he tumbled over. He rolled and aimed up at to find Marek, who fired his M-4 at a passing horseman, then looked down at him, grinning and extending a hand.

"Not doing much, laying on your back there, lad," he said, helping the Scotsman up.

"Neither does your sister," Danny replied jokingly with a grin. "I've hit at least three so far, what's your number?"

"Why, making a competition?"

"Don't think you can keep up?"

"Father says I can handle anything you can throw at me, Scots Boy. First to ten wins."

"You're on."

The two turned and immediately began firing at whatever creature they could find. It became a game then, what often happened when two young men were thrown into something like war. They yelled and hollered playfully as they fired at the assailants, which moved so fast that they barely hit anything, but at least they were doing something, were moving out and about and among the chaos, and at least they were having fun with it.

The horsemen rode in perfect fluid style. The rider and the stead were both in perfect sync with each other; at no point was a rider ever almost thrown off, or the horse disobedient to the owner's command. It was almost as if they shared a mind, horse and rider, although it was hard to tell for sure; they moved so fast, it was hard to get an accurate reading on their attack order.

All over the compound there were soldiers engaging in the horsemen, whether with rifles, sidearms, or even in hand-to-hand. Two soldiers had gotten a hold of a horseman; one had jumped onto the horse's back, taken out his combat knife, and stabbed the rider in the back, then reached around the man's neck and slit his throat. Another had taken his injured friend's M-4 and along with his own M-4 was dual firing them at any horse rider he saw. There were no rules in this battle; it was the pure wild west, anything went as long as one side won.

Morrison had emptied his clip and instead of reloading had pulled out his club and waited for the perfect opportunity. When one of the horsemen came close to him, he swung and his club slammed into one of the horse legs, shattering the kneecap and causing the horse and the rider to go flying head first into the sand. He brought his club up to bring it down on its ribs when he heard movement directly behind him.

He turned at the last second as a rider's horse had leaned onto its high legs and delivered a kick to his side, right in the top rib. He felt a sharp pain and a loss of air for a moment- the kick had probably cracked the rib- and fell onto his back. He looked up as the horse rider loomed over him, the front legs again poised to strike-

From behind, Will lightening-fast pulled out his USP and pumped five quick rounds into the rider's back. Both him and his horse fell to the side, both seemingly dead. The Irishman ran over, grabbed his friend, and helped him over to safety.

That safety was the medical tent, the only area not under direct fire. Doc and Sykes were still inside, the former doing his best to keep the other man in his bed.

"Let me go! I wanna fight!" Sykes was yelling.

"With a broken leg? You daft loony, lay _down_!" the medic forced the wounded radioman back onto the cot.

From their perch, Weber and Riley had the perfect vantage point to snipe the riders. They were the two that did the most damage that night; taking aim, being patient instead of impulsive, taking their shots whenever they were presented. While they did not hit many, every shot they made counted towards a kill for their side.

Slowly but surely, the surviving members of the task force managed to push the horsemen back, drive them away. The rumbling sound of their hooves soon faded off into the distance, as soon as they had come they were gone, leaving the men standing in the midst of ruin and dead horses and men.

Wallace stood back on the mound and looked around. His men were covered in sand, looking positively bewildered. Some of them were sitting down with sprained ankles or bruised ribs; one man had wrenched his knee, being supported by two of his buddies. They had cuts, scrapes, and bruises, but looked alright otherwise.

"Everyone alright? Call out!" he ordered.

One by one, his men called out, or if not him then one of his friends. Before long, all his men were accounted for; a good number of wounded, mostly just scrapes and cuts, some with twisted or bruised limbs, but nothing more serious than that, and none killed. He breathed easier.

"We've got a live one here!"

Terry was aiming his G-3 at the horseman that Morrison had hit with his club. Wallace and Port proceeded over to him to examine the rider and question him. As they got closer, they heard the men muttering and occasionally yelling out in surprise. The officers pushed to the front and stopped immediately upon sight of the target.

Now they knew how the horsemen coordinated so well; now they knew how horse and man were able to be in sync with each other. The two beings were actually one; the man _was_ the horse. The top half was a man's torso, black as night, a goatee that was pointed at the end, eyes dark and menacing, teeth barred and sharp. But past his midsection, it was all animal- the torso and legs of a horse, one of the front legs mangled by the club's impact, the back legs kicking wildly. It was taking five men to keep the horse part on the ground, so harshly was it thrashing around.

Wallace just stared at it in shock. _No way..._

"Bloody hell..."

Sergeant Carter fell to his knees in front of it and took off his helmet. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open in shock and- was that awe?- at the hybrid creature.

"It's a _centaur_," he blurted, confirming to the captain what his mind had already told him.

"Centaur?" Charlie gulped, his rifle aimed at the creature's chest. "What, those half-men, half-horse things they made up in the old stories?"

"Aye." A smile suddenly formed upon Carter's bewildered face. "Ohhh, look at it, it's _beautiful_."

He reached to touch the centaur's face, but it wildly bit at his fingers, missing by only a fraction of a inch. He yelped, but it was one of glee, and the smile never left his face. Wallace was wondering if his platoon sergeant had finally had his mind broken at the sight of what should have only been something from a story.

"Carter, what's the story with the centaur?" he demanded. Carter was a History teacher, and he probably knew these things to a better detail than those whose knowledge had faded after years out of school.

"Uh, in Greek mythology, the centaur was said to be born from Ixion, the son of Ares. Said to show the dark side of nature, they were normally depicted as barbaric by the Greeks, the real essence of what the worst of man can be. Stories of them being drunken followers of Dionysus, real nasty stuff. Notable exception was Cheiron, who was said to be the wisest and most gentle of the centaurs, whose logic was shared by him to such heroes as Hercules and Achilles, that whole schtick."

"Well, we can tell these didn't come from Cheiron's loin, then," Wallace noted. "Anything else?"

"Nothing other than that. There were stories that they may have been forest guardians, but no Greek account has made any mention, let alone confirmed that notion, so it's mostly just people making up their own tales."

"Well, there's no bloody forest, is there?" Danny demanded, face covered in sand and looking angry and unnerved by this turn of events. "What the hell would it have to protect out here? Sand? Rock? Fucking _cacti_?"

"I'm telling you the story as it was handed down by the Ancient Greeks," the platoon sergeant looked over his shoulder to say. "If you've got a problem with that, take it up with the historians!"

"You _are_ the bloody historian!"

"Both of you, _zip it_!" Port demanded, face red. Wallace knelt down to be eye-to-eye with the creature. It glared angrily back at him.

"What are you?" the captain asked. "What do you want from us?"

The centaur opened its mouth, and the words that came out were a low hiss that made the hairs on the back of every man's neck stand up by the cold tingling feeling that shot down their spines.

"_We are the black centaurs_," it hissed. "_And you cannot escape what it coming. You are all going to die_."

Charlie gulped again and backed away from it. Danny and Terry exchanged glances. They were words they were hearing all too often lately, and it was doing nothing to calm their nerves.

BAM!

Wallace pulled out his pistol, put it to the centaur's head, and fired. The surrounding men jumped at the sound; Carter fell backwards in shock as the centaur's skull exploded from the forty-five caliber round. The gazes of the men now were on the captain, who gave the dead creature one final glare before turning his back to it.

"Lieutenant Port, Sergeant Major Grimes," he ordered, walking away from the scene, "have the camp broken down and the men ready to move out by dawn. We're leaving."

* * *

Every light in the camp was turned on; the Humvees and trucks were ignited but stalling, their only use being to light the area. Men were up and running around, collapsing the tents, boxing up the rations, and moving everything into the trucks. The wounded, which were mainly those with sprained or wrenched ankles and knees from the latest attack, were helped onto the medical bus.

"Sir," Hunter asked his C.O., as he trailed behind the two commanders as they walked among the men. "Might we be acting a little hasty here?"

"Those creatures were a scouting party," Wallace said. "They didn't know we were out here, they just got lucky. Which means that the ones that got away are going to be returning to wherever their camp is to report our whereabouts, which means that come sunrise these dunes are going to be swarming with that dark-cloaked lot. And we do not want to be here when they show up."

"He's right," Port agreed. "We'd be right to move while we have the time advantage."

"And I assume staying and making a stand here is out of the question?"

Both officers looked over their shoulders at him with looks that answered the question fine on their own.

"We couldn't beat them back at full strength, Lieutenant. If they come back and see us with wounded, we wouldn't stand a chance."

"We could plan an ambush-"

"_Lieutenant_," Wallace stopped and turned, "this is not negotiable. We are in a bad position with limited supplies and manpower, and any ambush we plan would be suicide. I want to get the men up and moving, I want the vehicles all loaded up, and I want_ Carter to stop taking pictures of the damn centaur and do his job!_"

The three looked over to where Carter was on his knees with his digital camera pointed down at the dead creature. It had been sent to him by a student from the school he taught at in Nottingham, as a way of capturing the sites of the Middle East that he had taught his classes about. Sometimes he would take a Jeep out with a scout and take some pictures of some of the grand mosques and buildings of the cities they ventured out into; it was dangerous, and he had been cited for it several times, but the pictures he brought back were astounding.

The staff sergeant jerked his head up to meet his captain's annoyed gaze.

"Uh...right. Sorry, sir," he answered sheepishly, stuffing his camera in his vest pouch, slinging his M-240 strap over his shoulder, and getting up to give out orders to his men.

"What's the estimated time we can move out?" the captain then asked his executive officer.

"We can be ready in about ninety minutes, if we move fast enough," was the answer.

"Well then, let's move fast. If we're lucky, we'll be out of here before they realize their patrol is coming back short."

* * *

Danny, Marek and Matthews were loading supplies onto the flatbed truck. Matthews was still shaken by the attack.

"I think we seriously need to think about what's going on," he said.

"No need to," Danny said, slamming a box onto the truck and sliding it to the back. "We were attacked, they moved out, we're leaving before they come back."

"No, think about it." The machine-gunner slammed his box down and looked at his friend. "You remember what Franky was saying that girl said? About magic existing and being a witch and all that?"

"Aye, and?"

"And? And people don't just _create_ centaurs, do they? I've never heard of some bastard sitting in his garage and thinking to himself, hey, you know what would be cool? If I were to cut a man in half, cut a horse's head off, and just fuse the two together into some hybrid! No one _thinks_ like that, man."

"Apparently you do," Marek pointed out, his trademark grin glued to his face.

"It's not funny, man. I'm being serious."

"So what are you saying? That magical creatures like centaurs actually exist?" The idea, to Danny, seemed absurd.

"And if they do, then what else exists? There was a fucking flying horse in the camp today, Danny! And what about those bastards we ran into on patrol yesterday? Because they didn't act like regular humans act!"

"And that means magic exists?"

"I don't know, dude! _Something_ weird is going on, I know _that_!"

"Well, he's right on that count," Marek agreed. "But magical creatures? That's a stretch."

"Oh, what, like the Bible never had any magical creatures?"

"Alright, look," Danny sighed and turned back to them. "Yes, there is something creepy out there. Yes, it's something we haven't seen before. And yes, it's hard to explain exactly what it is. But magic is a bullshit answer if you ask me."

"But what _is_ the answer then? Work of God? Or one of Carter's ancient civilizations come back from the grave to bite us all in the ass?"

"More reliable an answer than magic. The first one, anyway, I don't know about Greek resurrection."

"Whatever it is," interjected Marek, slinging his pack over his shoulder, "it seems very devoted to giving us a run for our money."

"I don't care what the reason is," Danny announced. "Either we get away from it or we wipe them all out, whichever option works. That's all I care about."

Matthews nodded. That was all he cared about at this point, just going home. But he wanted to understand this as well, this phenomenon that was occurring. It was how he operated, how all of them operated. You had to understand your enemy, understand how they worked, if you had any chance of launching a good attack against them.

Danny knew that, of course he did. But his mind was running rampant with the thoughts of the last few days, of all he had seen, of all he had been through. He had come close to death several times that night of the attack, and he had come close yesterday, and he had come close tonight; more times in a week than he was used to, even in combat.

So he would worry about it later, at a time where he felt safe enough to think about it. Which, out here, was few and far between.

* * *

Terry and Tucker came into the tent as Jason was packing up his stuff. The money bag was resting on top of his sleeping bag.

"It's all still there?" Terry asked, crossing over to it.

"Unless one of you sods took some, it should be," his friend replied, not looking up from his work.

"I'm more concerned with your hands than mine," came the retort, as the blonde checked the contents. All there, as far as he could tell. They might have to do another count later, just in case.

"Oh, nice, mate. Real mature."

"Guys," groaned Tucker, sounding as tired as he looked, "not tonight, please? Let's just get packed up and ready to move on Captain's word."

"Talk to him," Jason nudged his head in Terry's direction. "He's the one being moody."

"Oh, forgive me. I'm just a little high strung from being attacked by men that had horses attached to their anuses."

"Eh, go have a smoke and calm yourself down."

"I can't. I ran out."

Both of his friends turned their heads towards him. "You? Out of smokes? Unheard of," Jason snorted.

"Well, it's not like I can just go to the PX and grab a new pack, can I?" Terry snapped.

"Oh boy," Tucker gulped. Terry, like most of the smokers on their base, did not function well around others without nicotine in his system. When he went even a day without a cigarette, he was aggravated, jumpy, and prone to confrontation. It was always a good idea for him to have his smoke, otherwise the dynamic of their roles in their little three-person group was thrown off.

Jason saw it too, and knew how to handle it. It was funny, in a bad way, how the roles were reversed just because Terry could not smoke. Normally, he was the calm, rational one, and Jason was the one who let his emotions and ambitions get the better of him. When there were no cigarettes, Jason found himself taking on Terry's role, something that he never did as well.

"Give the bag here, mate," he said, holding his hand out. "I'll hold onto it."

Terry snorted. "I can take care of the bag, Jason."

"Not saying you can't, I'm saying you should give it here."

"And I'm saying piss off."

"Guys, please," Tucker moaned. "We're all stressed right now, we're all on edge, last thing we need to do is get in a tizzy over this."

"Just give me the bag, Ter," Jason crossed over and grabbed for the bag. His hand clasped one of the handles.

"_I've got it_," Terry growled, firmly holding on to the other handle.

"Give it _here_."

The two started tugging at the bag like children arguing over a toy. Tucker was panicking. Something bad was going to happen, he was sure of that. That feeling was there, that feeling of looming dread that there was no way something was not going to go wrong. He was sure-

And then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the tent flap start to unzip.

"Guys, cut it out now-"

"_Just give it to me, you wanker_!"

"I can take care of it _fine_!"

"Everything alright in here?"

Everything happened fast. The flap opened and Sergeant Price's head stuck in. His abrupt entrance startled the two soldiers enough to make them jump; Jason released his hold on the handle, the bag flew back into Terry, who lost his footing and fell backwards. The bag tipped over, its mouth opened, and the money spilled out onto the ground, in plain view of everyone in the tent.

The silence that fell over the tent was overwhelming. Tucker's eyes darted from Jason's face, which had gone miraculously pale in such a short time, to Terry, whose mouth was wide open with no sound coming out, and then to Price, who had completely frozen, his eyes locked on the rather large pile of money in the middle of the tent, money that was very obviously not British and very obviously not theirs. Unless they had somehow gotten very lucky in American craps; which everyone knew their luck was not that great.

Price stepped fully into the tent, still looking at the money, until he finally looked up at the two men in front of him.

"And what's this, then?" he asked, his voice low and scratchy.

Tucker gulped. The sergeant glared over his shoulder, causing him to jump and scamper over to join his team mates. Price angry was a scary sight, and the least he could do to fuel the anger, the better.

"Well?" he asked again.

"Uh..." Jason clapped his hands together. "Right, well, Sarge, we need to finish packing if we're going to make Captain's deadline-"

"_All of you, stand still and don't make a move_!"

He flinched and did what he was told. Price looked almost deranged; he had never appeared this angry before, not that they had seen, at least. Tucker shot up straight as a pole. Terry staggered to his feet.

Price paced back and forth, keeping his eyes on the three of them. It was hard to tell quite what he was thinking, although Tucker's paranoia made him positive their sergeant was debating shooting them. He looked perfectly ready to do so.

"So what, drug money?" he asked.

"No," Terry groaned.

"So you murdered someone, then."

"_No_, Sarge-"

"_Then where the hell did you get it_?"

The private kept silent. So did the other two.

"Fine," Price said. "Stay silent for me. Captain Wallace will probably want to see this for himself, and you're not going to stay silent for him. I'm going to go fetch him, and so _help_ me, if I come back here and one of you is missing, or if that money is touched in any way, _ohhh_, you will be very sorry."

He stormed out of the tent. The three exchanged nervous glances, not in a hurry to hear what their company commander had to say.

* * *

"Looks like this was a waste, aye?" Weaver grunted, as Stern sat on his shoulders and worked on untying the transmitter from the dish.

"What do you mean?" Stern asked, not looking down from his work.

"Well, you spent all day getting this thing up, and now you're taking it down, and it didn't really do much when it was up, did it?"

"No, it did. We got a response."

"Aye?" Weaver felt his knees quaking, but held fast. "Ours or theirs?"

"Sounded like ours. Couldn't really tell. There was a lot of static."

"Well, who did it sound like?"

"Could have been Command, could have been an outpost unit, hell, it could have just been some telephone company over in India. I couldn't tell for sure."

"Lovely," the private laughed beneath him.

"Just hold it a little...there. _Woah_!"

As soon as Stern got the transmitter off the dish, Weaver's legs gave out. The two came crashing to the ground, Stern falling against the pole, which once again fell onto the sand. François ran forward to check the dish.

"Christ's _sake_, Weaver, you damn fool!" Stern cried, brushing himself off and checking the transmitter. A little sand on it, but it didn't look broken or breached. He would check it later, but for now it looked fine.

"Sorry," Weaver brushed himself off. "But you're not exactly light on the shoulders, are you?"

The techie shook his head. Weaver was a bean pole from Belfast, Ireland, and probably only weighed a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. A shaggy dark-haired lad at only twenty years, he had been a typical computer gamer back home, and had probably never gone outside at all then. He was a straight-A student-which was a surprise why he would be out here with them-but he was from a poor family, and the army gave him a chance to get a college fund built up. He was a hell of a marksman, though- although he could not hit a thing without his glasses- and it was because of this that he strayed from the classic M-4 that most of the unit used and used an MK-14 EBR rifle that he had had imported from the U.S. His tour was supposed to be up in two months, and he preferred to stay out of trouble until then; an impossible task now, with their predicament.

Stern looked over towards François, who thumbed up to indicate that the dish was okay. He sighed in relief. The last thing they needed was to build another dish, they had used up the last of their resources just to make this one. He stood up as the Frenchman came back over.

"Alright, now, François, I need you to-" He stopped. This was going to be pointless, the man did not understand a word coming out of his mouth. Normally, he would have tried anyway, but after today, he knew better now. "Alright, come with me." He motioned for his assistant to follow him and went off towards the French compound.

He found Sergeant-Chef Callard, who was kneeling in the sand and packing up his supplies. The sergeant looked up at their approach and stood.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I need François to do something important, can you translate for me?"

Stern figured it was a surprise request, and that was apparent when Callard's face turned into one of surprise. He was not a man who liked to make the same mistake twice, though, and if this made his life easier then he would do it.

"Alright, sure," Callard finally answered, a hint of surprise and satisfaction in his voice.

"Okay." Stern turned back to the French technician. "Now, François, I am going to give you the transmitter-"

"_François__, il vous donnerai l'émetteur._"

"I want you to hold on to it for now-"

"_Je vous veux que vous le teniez pour le moment._"

"Now, whatever happens, _do not lose this_-"

"_Ne perdez pas ceci, quoi qu passe_."

"Or let it get damaged-"

"_Et ne le faites pas endommager_."

"This is our only chance of connecting with Command. Guard it with your life."

"_C'est notre seule chance de connecter avec le centre d'Autorité. Gardez-le avec votre vie._"

"_Oui, Je le prendrai_," François nodded and took the transmitter and wrapped it in its cloth.

"Did he get all that?" Stern asked Callard.

"Every word," was the reply.

Stern sighed in relief. Experiment proven successful. He should have done this sooner, but then again, if he had there would not have been so big a problem between him and the French. At least now he had finally overcome the language barrier.

"Thank you, Sergeant," he said gratefully, dragging François back to the truck. Callard nodded and returned to his work, satisfied that his message had sunk in.

* * *

Wallace looked from the pile of money in front of him, then at the three soldiers sitting in front of him, from one face to the other. None of them dared look him in the face, not after telling their story. He and Price exchanged a quick look before he turned back.

"You lads had better be telling the truth," he said.

"It's like we said, Captain," Terry insisted. "The guy was already dead when we found him. I don't know if he did himself in, or if the rebels did, or what."

"And you have no idea what he was doing there?"

"We figured either he was a drug dealer or a spook, but we didn't really check to see what he was. He was just a guy in a suit with a hole in his face and a bag full of cash."

"Alright," Scott rubbed his tired eyes. This was not something he needed to deal with right now. "Did anyone else see it? Does anyone else know about this?"

Terry hesitated, but then Jason answered instead. "Tubbs came in, he saw the body, but he didn't see the money. We didn't tell him about it. We haven't told anyone else either."

"Good." The less who knew about this, the better it would be.

"Sir," Tucker spoke up, his voice cracking. "You don't think...we didn't lose the base over this, did we? All the lads we lost, you don't think it was because of this?"

Wallace looked into the young private's eyes and saw the distress this thought was clearly causing him. Was that his biggest worry, that they were the cause of all of it? The poor lad, to be plagued with that thought this whole week...

"No," he sighed, shaking his head. "No, I don't. If they had been after this, that girl we had would've said something. And she never made any indication that this was a matter of money."

_No, she just wanted to kill every single one of us_, he thought bitterly. But he saw a wave of relief wash over the boy's face, and that was good enough. Of course, it did not alleviate the matter at hand.

If this got out, the three would be in a world of trouble. Chances are their prints would be on the body and the gun, and add the fact that the money was probably not legal to begin with if it was being distributed in the middle of a combat zone, there were going to be a lot of people convinced that the three of them had done the man in. If they had just left it be, had reported it upon seeing it, it would not have been a problem. But it was a bag full of money, who would not get a little greedy?

Even still, he did not want to see anything happen to these three. As lazy as they were, they were good soldiers. They had family, they had friends. Jason had his dreams for his business. A military court would certainly ruin all of that for them.

"Alright, here's what's going to happen," he told them. "I'm not going to punish you. I'm not going to sell you out. When we get back to headquarters, I'll put in a report that there was a body found, but nothing was touched. We'll start an inquiry over what he was doing out there, but that's the last we'll think of it. You will be questioned, of course, but as long as you tell them the story you just told me, omitting the cargo you took off him, then you'll be fine."

Jason sighed in relief. "Thank you so much, Captain-"

"_However_," Scott interrupted, not finished, "between now and the time we get to the safe zone, I want this money gone. All of it. I don't care what you do, burn it, blow it up, whatever. But it is not coming with us when we get to safe ground. Not a single bill. And I will check when we get there to make sure it is all gone. Understood?"

Jason's face fell. His mouth stayed open as he struggled to find words, but nothing came out. Terry's expression was blank. Tucker looked like a mix between relief and terror.

"If so much as a single bill are still on any of you when we're done, then the deal is off the table. I can't risk it. This doesn't affect just you, it affects the whole company. I don't want to get out of this mess only to end up in another one. Do you all understand?"

Tucker nodded, his head bobbing in earnest. Terry nodded, somewhat dejectedly. Jason did not move a muscle, just standing there, face down turned. The captain stared sternly at him, and he knew there was no way out but to agree. He nodded.

"Good." Wallace looked at his watch. "We're rolling out in twenty. Get the rest of this sorted out and get ready to fall in with the convoy."

He nodded to all of them and walked out without a salute. Price moved in front of them, his face no longer angry, but sullen.

"I expected better from you boys, really," he said. "Get rid of it." And then he followed Wallace out as well.

As soon as they were gone, Jason rounded on Terry.

"_What the fuck is WRONG with you_?" he screamed. He almost went to tackle him but Tucker held him back. "Did you go daft or something? You think you were being funny? Now look what you've done!"

Terry did not reply, his eyes looking down to the ground. It was hard for Tucker to read his expression, it was so muddled.

"Jace, relax, mate-"

"_Don't tell me to bloody relax_! Now we're out on our luck because this _arsehole_ decided to act like a raging cunt!"

"I'm sorry" muttered Terry, so low it was barely heard.

"Oh, you're _sorry_! Well, I'm so glad that you're sorry you've fucked us out of six hundred _thousand_ dollars!"

"_Jace_!" Tucker insisted. He had never seen Jason this angry, and had never seen Terry this submissive. Usually the two could go at it as equals, Terry had had no problem defending himself against Jason before, but now he just sat there and did nothing.

Jason backed off, still fuming, but trying to calm himself down. He glared at Terry.

"Okay...okay, well I'm going to try and figure something out. Try not to do anything more stupid than what you just did, aye?"

_Don't know how he'll do that,_ Tucker thought, _Captain made it pretty clear he wanted it gone. _But maybe Jason would figure out a way to still keep it. Not that he cared. If he got out of this mess, he'd be fine with never touching that money again. It had brought nothing but bad luck since they found it.

* * *

On the outskirts of the camp, Keaney and his squad were gathered around the spot where they had buried Mathenson. Keaney was fixing an IP transponder to the metal pole they had used to mark the grave.

"That's not going to do much if a sandstorm comes along," Anwar reminded him.

"Well, it's the best we can do," came the tired reply. "We can't take him with us."

After a week in the grave, the body would smell worse than elephant dung, and they had no way of preserving it to possibly delay decomposition. It would just be cumbersome on all of them. At least this way they had a chance of returning to recover the corpse when they were rescued. It was only right. Mathenson had been a great teammate and friend to all of them. The least they could do was make sure he was brought back home.

Keaney finished tying the transponder to the cross and then stood, his rifle in his hand.

"Alright," he said, turning to his men. "Let's roll out."

* * *

The camp was packed up. The vehicles were ready to roll. The men were running around and doing one final sweep to make sure they did not leave any sign of a trace. What for a week had been tent city was now just another barren spot in the desert, soon to be completely deserted.

"Alright, Sykes, in you go," Doc ordered, as Finn and Owen lifted the stretcher onto the medical bus. "We'll get you strapped in so that it doesn't hurt too much, is that okay?"

"Might as well. It's not like I'm useful for anything else," Sykes replied sullenly. His leg was laid out straight in its brace, unable to do anything but stay there as it was. This latest attack had left him more forlorn than anything else; he had just sat there, unable to move, unable to help the rest of the company.

"Don't worry, mate, I'll drive slow for you," Archie told him, as cheerful as ever. Optimism at this point was desperately needed, and thankfully, the driver never was in short supply of that.

Wallace and Port watched as Sykes was placed on the bus, then proceeded to their jeep. The last of the preparations were being made. The platoon sergeants had gotten the men moving at an amazing speed. Already most of the men were packed into the Humvees and the flatbed, along with all of the supplies. They should be moving out within minutes.

"Do we have a destination?" Wallace asked his X.O.

"Not entirely-"

"Sir," Murphy's voice spoke softly behind them. He and Sully had caught up to the officers and were keeping pace.

"-but we've got a compass bearing due north, and once we hit the city we can get a better assessment of where we are and where we're going."

"Sir, it's kind of important-"

"Alright," Wallace replied. "We'll take lead of the convoy, everyone else follows behind-"

"Sir," Sully interjected, loud enough to definitely be heard. "We're short on gas."

That got their attention. The officers turned to the two mechanics, stopping them in their tracks.

"How short?" The captain demanded.

"We only m-managed to fill up a few cans per vehicle at the base, sir," Murphy answered, his voice shaky. "M-m-maybe two and a half, three cans per vehicle."

"Nowhere near enough, if we don't know where we're going," Sully added.

That was going to be a huge problem that they had not taken into consideration. Wallace had completely forgotten about the gas. Of course they would not have enough gas, not to get from here to Command in one drive, not without a real sense of direction. They would run out long before then without help.

"The good news is, we're in one of the largest oil reserves countries in the world," continued Sully, trying to keep hope. "The question is, are we going to get it easy?"

"Not if the rebels have their say," Port answered, looking at the captain. "How do we want to do this, Scott?"

"We don't have the choice," was the hesitant answer. "We'll need to hit up any oil pipeline we come across, big or small. Take whatever we can get and hope the locals don't start shooting at us. It's the only shot we have."

"I'll let Sergeant Ryan know," said Sully, hurrying off with Murphy right on his heels.

"Even that's not going to be enough for the entire convoy," Port reminded him as they hopped into their Jeep, which Charlie was already starting up.

"We'll just have to make do. We'll work it out on the road," Scott replied, sitting down. "Are we ready to go, Charlie?"

"All vehicles confirm they are ready to move out, sir."

"Then let's not overstay our welcome any more than we have."

And they were off. Charlie hit the gas and the Jeep roared forward, immediately taking the lead. The remainder of the convoy sped off after them, loaded with the remainder of the company however they could fit them all in, in addition to weapons and supplies. The faster vehicles took the lead, with the bigger, slower ones trailing towards the rear. They arranged themselves in a way that there was enough protection for every vehicle in the convoy, even though an RPG round could still cause plenty of trouble. They were glad, however, to be on the road, to finally be making a move towards rescue.

Even though they had no idea where or when it would come.

* * *

It was now dawn. The convoy drove in a single-file line down the road, lead by Captain Wallace's Jeep, occupied by him in the passenger's seat, Charlie driving, and Lieutenant Port in the back. Behind him was the communications van with Stern and François riding together. Behind him were the first three Humvees, the first driven by Danny, the second by Terry, and the third by Weaver. Next was the medical bus, driven by Archie, and behind him was Sully's flatbed truck. Behind the truck was the Humvee occupied by the French and German soldiers, with _Sergeant-Chef_ Callard driving. Finally, bringing up the rear as expected, was the lone Russian tank.

Scott looked tiredly out into the rising sun. It had been such a long night getting everyone together and moving out, especially with the little surprise with the money that those three had. Add the attacks and the surprises of the last week, and he was exhausted. When was the last time he had truly slept? Had it really been too long?

"Dammit," he heard Port curse in the back. He turned to see his lieutenant fumbling through his jacket pockets.

"What?" he asked.

"I'm out of cigarettes," Port groaned, giving up his pocket search. "Do you have any?"

His friend raised an eyebrow. "Since when do I smoke?" he asked. Never, was the answer. His grandfather had died of lung cancer when he was six, and he had no intention of ending up like him.

"Charlie?"

"Sorry, sir, I have none."

Port groaned again, prompting Wallace to reach for the radio receiver. He knew the lieutenant was not going to stop until he had smoke in his lungs, and there were others in the company that would certainly have some for him.

"Lead to convoy, Lieutenant Port is in need of cigarettes. Danny, cough them up," he said into the receiver.

"_Sorry, Captain, I'm out_." Danny's voice replied back.

"Why don't I believe that, Private?"

"_Oh Captain, my Captain, would I lie to you_?"

_About cigarettes, you would_, Wallace thought, but he let it go. "Lead to Archie."

"_Yes, Captain, what can I do for you this fine day_?" The driver of the medical bus said back cheerfully.

"Need smokes for the lieutenant. You got any?"

"_Oooh, that's a negative, sir_."

"What about those strawberry cigars you get shipped to you?" Archie had a cousin in the cigar business, and he always got the best kinds shipped to him.

"_Hate to say it, but I'm out of those too_."

_Bloody hell_, the captain mentally cursed. "Terry, you've got some?"

"_Ran out. Not happy about it_," came Terry's grumpy answer.

"Oh, you've got to be taking the mickey," the captain retorted, getting frustrated. "Sully?"

"_Sorry, Captain. Smoked my last two before we moved out_."

Port groaned behind him. "Terrific," he cursed, stuffing his lighter back in his pocket.

Wallace sighed. Over the radio, Stern's voice said what all of them were starting to think.

"_Well, gents, looks like it really is the end of the world_."

Scott snorted as he again looked out towards the rising sun. That sentence summed things up nicer than anything else would have.

* * *

**I had to look that up, what the exact oil status is of Iraq (where this story is taking place, if you weren't aware; Balad, the city in chapter 3, is a city in Iraq), and according to surveys it is one of the biggest oil reserves countries in the world, if not the biggest. Which probably isn't big news for most of you reading this, given the way our world has worked for the last twenty years, but I needed to be sure. I'm not very intelligent, as you can probably tell.**

**Weaver is just another face in the company. I know I have a lot of characters, but there are still quite a few nameless soldiers scattered here and there, and I decided to take advantage of that. He's not going to be huge, he's just gonna be around.**

**Other than that, this story's been picking up in views, which is always lovely, even though it's been over two years now...yeah. I know it's long between updates, but I'm being kind of a perfectionist with this story, which I suppose is a genuine first for me. And they are long chapters.**

**Well, thank you for reading, hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think, and I'll see you next time. Pea soup.**


	11. Perspectives II

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** This will probably be the shortest chapter in the story, just because it's another perspectives chapter, focusing again on the characters from chapter 3. So if you're in for a quick read, this will probably cover it.

* * *

Perspectives II

* * *

Second Lieutenant Liam O'Donnell never took his job for Command's communications division lightly. It always seemed like there was something going on, big or small, and every blip on their comms needed to be reported to Major Petitt over with intelligence, who then reported it to Colonel Shepard and regiment command, if it needed to be.

Lately he and his staff had been on full alert, with the attacks on the bases and all that. They had lost contact with Delta Base two days ago, so that was three bases gone now. And, like Charlie Base, there were bodies missing, although far less than Charlie had. Twenty missing at most, if that. These were most likely to be prisoners of war, and that was never a good thing.

"Sir?"

The Irish lieutenant, tall, dark hair neatly cropped, a slight limp in his leg from an old sports injury, hobbled over to where one of his corporals sat at his communications post.

"What is it?" he asked.

"We're picking up something. Trying to clean it up," the corporal said. He was an experienced member of O'Donnell's staff, and he had no doubt the man could do it.

"Here, sir." The corporal took off his headphones and handed them to him.

O'Donnell brought the headphones to his ears. At first, he heard nothing. Then-

"_-by units, this is Charlie Two-Six, we are under siege and are in need of assistance, do you read me? This is Charlie Two-Six, please respond..."_

O'Donnell stared at the corporal. Two-Six, that was...

_"This is Charlie Two-Six to all available units in the area, we are under attack by an unidentified force. We have sustained heavy casualties, our supplies are minimal. If you can hear me, please respond. We are in dire need of assistance, over." _

The lieutenant reached over and set the radio frequency to transmit. _Lord, one of them's alive out there. Someone must be watching out for us._

"This is Command. We read you, Charlie Two-Six, can you read us, over?"

There was a brief pause before the response came.

_"This is Charlie Two-Six, we read you, you're choppy but we read you. Can you..."_

And that was all they got out of the transmission before static took over.

"Two-Six? Say again, Two-Six, we're losing you."

No response.

"Please say that transmission was recorded," he demanded from his corporal.

"It was, sir."

"Good." He doubted Petitt would believe him otherwise. Charlie Company had been missing for almost a week at this point, but any news of them being alive was exactly what they needed.

"Get Shepherd on the phone. He's going to want to hear this."

* * *

Khalid Shiek Ali watched as the ragged line of survivors came trudging into the village. Not many, but enough. Men supporting the remains of their families, carrying their wounded on carts. Women clutching their children to their breasts in fear. On one cart was a row of children bodies covered with a blanket.

"It was bad."

He tore his eyes away from the pack as Ali Mohammad sat next to him. Ali was his friend from the neighboring village, and a fellow comrade-in-arms. Ali was shorter, more wiry, his teeth stained permanently yellow from years of chewing _khat_. He almost always kept his brown eyes behind a pair of sunglasses, but today they were clipped on his shirt pocket as they scanned their new audience.

"They tore right through the village," he continued, his eyes looking haunted as he relived the memory. "Homes were set on fire in seconds. Most of the militia based there were dead before they even got out of their beds."

Khalid nodded. This was the same report they had received twice already from different areas. It seemed like the whole country was under attack.

"I don't understand how the Americans could do all of this," Ali continued, disgust in his voice.

"I am not so sure they did."

He turned his head in surprise. "You don't?"

"The Americans have their faults, but they are not capable of this level of mass slaughter," was the seasoned reply. "They have their rules by which they abide by. Their morals."

"They decided to break them."

"No. They would never."

"Then whom?"

"I do not know. This pattern of attacks is not one I'm familiar with, but whatever it is, I think it wants our enemies destroyed as much as it wants us destroyed."

Ali stared at him for a moment, then stared back, shaking his head. If not the Americans, then who was responsible?

Khalid did not know. But they had to stop it soon. Before it wiped out their entire country.

* * *

"Phenix."

Begley stared at his blonde-haired leader impatiently, waiting for some form of command. Phenix said nothing. He simply twisted the sixty-inch blade in his hands, admiring all thirty-two inches of sharp steel with its handle, not acknowledging his subordinate.

He had taken the blade off a Muggle fisherman about a year ago. The man had been drunk and boasting about some foolish fight he had won, boring Phenix to death with his chatter, but the blade appealed to him. Such a simple device, so thin but deadly a blade, with such a unique T-shaped handle. He desired it. So he killed the man and stole the blade as a souvenir.

Rarely did he kill with it. It depended on the situation, as well as his mood. Mainly, it was just for show. But he put a lot of care into it. It fascinated him, this fisherman's tool. Fascinated him more than his men understood.

"Phenix."

He sighed. "Yes?"

"Those men we took in the last encounter with the Mudbloods."

"What about them?"

"In a couple of weeks, it's going to be the full moon. And the ones we caught were all bitten."

"They weren't bitten on the full moon."

"Our wolves said they tasted the blood. That should be enough."

Probably not, Phenix thought. But he was no werewolf expert, so what did he know?

"What are you suggesting?"

"That we send them out and see what they find."

Interesting suggestion. Werewolf attacks were usually the best way to soften a target up. They didn't have many werewolves on their deployment, and the ones from the last encounter would be brand new. If they actually turned. Which he was not entirely convinced of, given that it was not full moon when they were bitten.

Still, full or not, werewolves were an effective tool.

"Very well," he said. "Send them out three days early so there aren't any accidents in camp. We'll see what they find."

* * *

"Lieutenant Winters, sir?"

Winters snapped out of his daydream to look up at the man who had approached him. He was a brown haired lad, probably mid-twenties by the look, built like a wrestler. He was shirtless, and his chest showed three large scars going top left to bottom right. On his right arm was a tattoo of a red-haired, blue-eyed mermaid with a belly button piercing. His face was older, and right now was a mix of confusion and worry.

"I know you," the lieutenant said, sitting up. "You're Delta Company, aye? You pal around with Sully and that lot."

"Corporal Henry Granger, sir," the man replied, sitting down with him. "I'm with Delta's motor pool."

Winters nodded. He saw this soldier hang out with Sully and Tony and the members of Charlie Comapny's motor pool on those times where some members of Delta were flown over to their base. Sully was a friend of his from back home, they had gone to college together. Winters knew him by sight and by Sully's descriptions of him, but that was all he knew.

"Delta's wiped out too, then?" he asked grimly.

"Tore us to pieces," was the somber reply. "We were prepared and everything. Had the gun turrets manned and operating, the towers were always occupied, we had Claymores laid out at every camp entrance, Russian tanks were always on patrol. None of it mattered. They hit hard, hardly any of us were left standing. No one got away."

"Did you get any of them?"

"We got a few. I couldn't tell you how many. They moved so fast."

"Like ghosts." Hardly a surprise now. Winters was unfortunately getting used to it.

"Bloody chaos. Those men...it was magic, it was."

The lieutenant laughed. An absurd statement, and that was the truth of it. And the sad part of it was that it was a statement that he himself had been considering all too often in the last couple of days.

"Yeah, magic," he agreed. "Hocus-pocus and the like. Fun shit, aye?"

Granger laughed. There was a shine coming off his teeth from the sun, and Winters saw that one of his back molars was made of fool's gold.

"Yeah, I used to think that," the soldier admitted, shaking his head. "I used to think magic was a crock of shit, same as everyone else. Why not, right? How can you believe in magic at our age, in this day and age?"

He picked at dirt under his fingernails, and Winters then saw his expression suddenly change. His face was now deep, contemplating, no longer messing about. He was serious now.

"Yeah, I used to think like that," he said again, softer now. "And then my little cousin got a letter saying she was accepted to a school for magic."

Winters frowned. "Wait, _what_?"

"Aye. My little cousin, a bona fide witch. Little Hermy, she's a brilliant child, always poking through books and the like. Then she gets a letter, 'bout six or seven years ago, telling her she's a witch, and she's been accepted to this magic school to learn how to use spells and whatnot. Fun, yeah?"

The lieutenant from Ireland just stared at him, waiting for the punchline. There was none; not visibly anyway.

"Your cousin's a witch?" he asked again.

"Mhm."

"Like...magic wand, broomstick, black cat and the like?"

"Brown cat, actually." Granger snorted at the thought. "And no broomstick. My aunt, her mum, says she doesn't like flying."

"You're serious."

"I am, sir. We're not really supposed to talk about it back home, but hey, it's not like it's going to matter here, right?"

"I guess not." It did not make the idea any less absurd though. "Still not sure I believe you, but hey, if it'll help you sleep at night."

They looked up and were silent as a group of the dark-cloaked men walked past. Thankfully they had stopped torturing Winters days ago, after they finally figured he had no idea where the others were, so mostly now they left him alone. Mostly. There were still times where he'd get a rock thrown his way, or get a painful kick to his rear. Still, he had food given to him, as terrible as the food was. He had a cot, as thin and uncomfortable as it was. So all in all, it could have been worse.

"They treat you alright here?" he asked the corporal.

Granger shrugged. "Well enough, I suppose. Me and the other boys from Delta have our own tent that they keep us in. They don't beat us or anything."

"Well, that's good." There was probably no need to torture them. Unlike his men, Delta had not had the same lucky chance for escape.

"Did anyone from your company get away?"

Winters nodded. "A good number, from the sounds of it. They weren't happy about that."

"Sully? Tony? Any of those guys?"

"I couldn't tell you. I lost track of everyone once the shooting started. Maybe they got out." Or maybe they were lying among the dead back at base, he didn't have to say.

Granger finished picking the dirt under his nails. He looked over at the dark-cloaked men, his expression lost in thought. Then he turned to the lieutenant again.

"I think they're planning to do something with us," he said.

"Like what?"

"I don't know...the night we lost the base, me and the ones they took were all attacked by these giant...I don't know, it looked like a man, but he was all...furry."

"Furry?"

"Furry."

"Furry like a raccoon?"

"No, more furry like a dog. His teeth were wicked sharp and his nails were long, way too long for a man. He did this." And he showed off the scars again.

"_Yikes_." Winters looked at the scars that trailed diagonally right down his chest. It looked like someone had raked four massive blades like a cat-o-nine-tails down his chest. At least they were healing properly, they looked a lot better than they must have before.

Come to think of it...they looked _months_ old...

"When did this happen?" he asked.

"Three, four nights ago."

"These wounds looks like they healed weeks ago."

"Exactly." There was worry in his eyes now. "I woke up the first morning we were here and they were closed over and healing. These were huge bloody gashes. My staff sergeant thought I wasn't going to survive the night. And then I'm up and at 'em the next day like nothing's happened."

Winters just stared. There was no way something like this could heal overnight. It looked like it could have been fatal.

"Anyone else get something like this?"

"Everyone they took got scratched or cut up. One guy even got bit."

"The furry bloke _bit_ him?"

"Aye. Took a chunk right out of his shoulder. But it was completely healed over the next day."

_Bloody hell_, the lieutenant thought. What kind of miracle workers did they have for medics where wounds healed like that?

"These people said we were going to have a job to do..." Granger rocked back and forth, his fearful eyes on the officer's face. "I don't want to do anything for them, but I don't know if I have a choice. I don't know what they've done to me."

A shiver went down Winters' spine. Despite it being ninety-two degrees today, he suddenly felt very cold. Not for the first time in the week since his capture, he was wondering if they were all in over their heads. And if what Granger said was true, and there really was magic in the world, then how did you beat that?

How do you fight magic?

* * *

He had that dream again.

Phenix sat up in his bed, his face drenched in a cold sweat. Wiping his hand down his face, he waved his wand at the glass on his bedside table.

"_Aguamenti_." he muttered.

A jet of water shot from his wand and filled up the glass. He took it and swigged it all down in three gulps. Taking a deep breath, he looked at himself in the mirror, checking out his facial features. Same blonde hair, albeit messed up due to sleep. Same gray eyes, tired from his interrupted sleep. Same soul patch on his chin.

And no scar. Definitely no scar. He exhaled in relief.

The details of his dream was still vivid in his mind. Every night for a month he had had the same nightmare. The first night he was confused, because he never dreamed and if he did, he never remembered them. The second night he was unnerved that it had happened twice in a row. The third time, he had a small panic attack and spent the day in his own solitude, staring up at the tent roof. Now, he was used to it, but the dream still haunted him, every night, as soon as he was asleep.

In the dream, he was alone. He was in one of these backwater village towns, only it was entirely on fire. Presumably his forces had just raided another village. There were bodies everywhere; his men, villagers, and those soldiers they were looking for. A massive battle, the winner unknown.

Then suddenly he was looking at himself from another perspective, and even though he knew what he was seeing, the sight was still a shock. He was covered in soot, a bleeding cut on the side of his head, his robes torn from battle. But the most disturbing feature- to him- was the large bloody gash cut diagonally across his face, with blood trailing from it down his chin.

And then, before he could even react, he saw his chest explode in blood and torn skin. Once, twice, three more times after that, then one more time to finish it off. What was doing it, he did not know, but he watched in horror as his body fell in slow motion onto its back, a look of pained confusion on his face as he hit the ground.

And then he would wake up.

He felt along his face where the scar was in his dreams. What did it mean? Was he seeing the future? He had never been very good at Divination, he had no idea how to read the stars or examine tea leaves or any of that nonsense. He did not know if any of his men could either. He supposed it could mean anything. It could be reflecting inner doubts, fears. Or it could just be the terrible food they had out here giving him indigestion.

He could not be allowed to dwell on it. He had a force to lead. The Dark Lord had trusted him with this journey, him alone, and he would see it through. His fears and doubts would be cast aside, _must_ be cast aside, in order to do so.

The black centaurs had reported in the other day. These were centaurs that had fallen heavily into the Dark Arts, and had become corrupted by its influence. The former laws of the centaurs meant nothing to them, as they would mean nothing when the Dark Lord took over. The head centaur reported that they had found the enemy camp and reported that there were a considerable amount of them still alive. And they were still fighting; far fewer dark centaurs came back than had left.

No word on how many of the Mudbloods were left alive. The leader was not even sure if they had killed any of them. Concerning, given their advantage.

Phenix was fully awake now, and there was no point in going back to sleep. Today he would inspect his soldiers and be sure they were alright. Then they would set their target for today. Another backwater village. The Mudbloods of this region were so pitiful, lived in such poverty. Their defenses were low, lower than the soldiers they were chasing. Wiping them out was almost being kind to them.

He cracked his neck and stood. The worry of the dream was fading, as it always did come morning. Enough mindless worry. There was work to do.

* * *

Colonel Shepherd listened to the audio, puffing concernedly on his cigar. It was a short recording, and when it ended he sat back in his seat, his face drawn in concentration.

"And you couldn't regain contact after that?" he asked Major Petitt.

"No, sir," was the reply. "Although we are still trying."

"It might not mean anything, sir," Lieutenant Colonel Hastings, ever the pessimist, retorted. "It might just be an outpost unit."

"They said Charlie Two-Six, that's the unit designation," argued Chaplin McMillan.

"And how do we know it's not a trap? Could be a rebel. Or whatever is attacking our lot in the first place."

"You said it sounded like one of theirs?" Shepherd asked Petitt.

"Lieutenant O'Donnell said it sounded like their communications technician, sir," confirmed Petitt. "It was full of static, but it sounded similar."

"Sir, we need to send a rescue force out there," McMillan demanded. "We need to get them out."

"Can we get a location off this?" the colonel asked.

"No, sir. Not from this."

"So we search the desert, comb every inch-"

"Captain," Hastings interrupted McMillan. "The entire country is in a state of war. Every inch of it is a danger zone. We cannot afford to send more men and resources in when we have no idea where to look."

"You're condemning them do death!"

"We are doing no such thing." Shepherd interrupted the argument, taking control again. "We will not send our forces out to search locations without a clear fixated point. But we are not going to leave our men out there. Once we get the proper coordinates we will send help to them. As soon as we know where they are, we will get them out."

The fighting stopped. Hastings sit back, mumbling something incoherent. McMillan glared at him.

Shepherd sat back, puffing his cigar. He had to act soon. Reports were rising of villages being ravaged in the same manner as his bases. Whatever this force was, it was spreading, and it was not taking sides in the conflict. Everything and everyone was fair game to them. And when they were done here, what was stopping them from moving onwards, to other countries?

What was stopping a global conflict from arising?

Nothing, as far as he could see. And that was what worried him.

* * *

The storm was coming.

Khalid peered through his window at the black cloud off in the distance. But it was no storm cloud. There was something moving in the cloud, something fierce. It almost looked like parts of the cloud were branching off and moving ahead of them.

He was expecting this. Night after night he had lay in bed, waiting for the sound of war to come to take them next. Knowing that the chances of them winning would be slim. But still he knew he would try. For his people. For his family.

Outside he could see the local militia scrambling. At least sixty militia, all with small arms and RPGs. He knew his friend Ali was out there among them, probably waiting for him.

He grabbed his AK-74 rifle and a belt of ammunition. They would need every able bodied man to get their village through the night.

In the distance, the dark cloud grew closer.

* * *

**Yup. Short chapter.**

**As usual, I take a few liberties. Introducing a family member of Hermione when, as far as I know, either the only family she has are her parents or she rarely if ever sees extended family, seems like a bit of a risky move, but I decided to go with it to sort of interweave storylines (you'll see more of why later). And I doubt the rules of keeping the secret really matters to him since, again, he probably rarely sees her, and also that the situation is already so close to what he knows about her. Also describing the centaurs from the last chapter in a bit more detail in a way that I don't feel like it's complete treason.**

**The next chapter will be up within this next week. I can already hear the groans "Oh, by this week he means six months from now, hurr." No. It WILL be up within the week. It's already written. I just want this chapter to be seen and read first before I upload that one.**

**And the next two and a half chapters have already been drafted in all their entirety (well, except for the half one), so the next few chapters should be uploaded fairly quickly.**

**Well, that's all for now. Peasoup.**


	12. The Village

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: T/M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** I'm glad I finally made it this far. Up until now the story has been about characters and preparation for something bigger. Now we're gonna start getting into the bigger story.

* * *

The Village

* * *

_Three weeks after leaving initial rally point_

* * *

Scott Wallace peered through his binoculars at the small circle of huts that lay before them, hoping that all was as it seemed and there were no surprises waiting for them.

The village was more a collection of tin-walled huts that formed a small semi-circle. At most the buildings looked like they had one, maybe two rooms each, if that. One or two looked only like sheds. The prize and joy of this collection was a large building that had four long segments-the two that he could see had doors at the end, and he assumed the other two were the same- and two big iron doors right on the front. It almost looked like a gas chamber, although why they had a gas chamber all the way out here was beyond him.

He lowered the binoculars and looked over at the rest of his company. All ninety of them were sitting fast, waiting for any orders. The way they looked was how he looked; dirty, unshaven, tired, hungry, and weary. For three weeks they had been roaming around the desert, looking for shelter and oil and a way back to the safe zone. It had not been an easy three weeks; a sandstorm had grounded them for four days, they had almost driven into an active minefield, and the occasional skirmish with the rebels had cropped up. But they had been lucky so far, as no one had been hurt or killed.

And they had not found that dark-cloaked lot. Which was a blessing.

Bill Port settled in beside him. The handkerchief over his missing eye had since been replaced by a headband they had found in a village they had passed through, a green-colored one that was big enough that he could sling it over the mesh of skin that was left of the left half of his face. In the weeks following his wound, he had bounced back nicely, but there were still restrictions, and one eye was not as advantageous as two in a battle. He was doing his best, but there was no point in ignoring the handicap.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"Looks alright from here," Scott replied. "But-"

"Yeah. But."

Just last week they had found a house that had been booby-trapped with C-4 wired to dead corpses. If Sergeant Price had not spotted the tripwire, Tucker would have been nothing more than two smoking boots with no owner. Terry had successfully managed to defuse the situation, but it had been a very close call.

Off to their left, Danny Armstrong and Kevin Matthews were sitting on their Humvee. Danny was using his own binoculars to inspect the village.

"Looks clear to me," he said, passing the pair to his partner.

Matthews snorted. "Yeah, don't they always?" he asked, bringing them to his eyes.

Wallace could not help but suppress a grin. Yes, these villages always looked clear. It wasn't until they were nice and secure in them that the rebels liked to play peekaboo with them.

"What do you think?" Port asked him.

Either move into the village or move on somewhere else. This village had an oil supply, something they desperately needed. But three weeks in the desert had left them all tired and weary of everything.

He got onto his radio. "Keaney," he said, "it's your call. What do you want to do?"

Just down in front of them, Sergeant Keaney's squad was settled in, ready to move into the town and secure it. Keaney acknowledged the request and hesitated.

Normally, he would obey the order without question, as recon and infiltration were their specialty within the company. Lately, however, he had become more and more weary. It felt like every village was booby-trapped now, and there were way too many close calls. One of these days his luck was going to take a turn for the worse, and he was going to be the one being scooped into a bucket.

He looked over at Anwar. His friend stared back with the same knowing expression. Neither of them wanted to go in there, but they needed the gas, and a night in a hut was preferable to a night in the trucks, or a foxhole in the sand. Anwar nodded.

Keaney looked to the rest of his men and whistled. The rest of his team stood with him and the five of them jogged, hunched over, weapons at the ready, into the village. Wallace watched them go through his binoculars, bracing himself. He would stay on edge until it was confirmed that the village was okay.

Once they hit the village, Keaney began directing them through hand signals. Redfield, Coupland and McCoy would search the right half of town and sweep through the huts. He and Anwar would search the left half, and he himself would inspect the main building. His men nodded and proceeded with their objectives. Anwar shared a nod and broke away while he approached the main building, moving towards one of the long sections jutting out.

Weapon ready, he pushed the door open and immediately swerved in, moving methodically, in rhythm. The area looked like a long corridor, with another set of doors towards the end. There were slits for windows on the tops of the wall; to give prisoners a final glimpse of the outside, perhaps? He proceeded forward, keeping an eye on the ground for tripwires of any kind.

Paranoia kept him from opening the next door for over a minute. He jiggled the handle repeatedly, opening it slowly, then closing it again, breathing deeply. Mentally he berated himself for being so cautious; this was not like him at all. Weeks out in the desert, sleep-deprived and on edge, had taken their toll. He pushed the door open and stepped in.

The main building was one floor and one circular room, the roof high over his head. Like the hallway, there were slits for windows, nowhere near big enough to fit through or close enough to the ground to climb to. Aside from the hallways, there was only one door leading out, a big pair of metal doors with a latch beam that ran across. When the doors closed, the beam must automatically fall down and lock, trapping them inside.

He let his rifle hang on its strap, flipped the lock on the beam, and tried to raise the beam himself. He could, but it was a lot of strain. Two or more big men like Sully or Owen could probably do it no problem.

He looked around again. He noticed little tubes pointed through the bottoms of the walls, three tubes in horizontal collections in what would be corners of the round buildings. This confirmed the idea of the gas chamber. He bent down to inspect them. They did not appear to have been in use as of recent; maybe they were not even operational. Which would be great, if this was going to be the main HQ for however long they stayed here. No risk of being gassed.

Still, it was a eerie feeling, standing in the middle of a gas chamber. Why would an ordinary village have this sitting here? Was it a rebel village, or was this just a leftover from a darker time? Of course the country had a history of mass gassings, but that was ten years ago, they were not done anymore. So why still have this here?

And on that note, where _were_ the villagers? The rebels would not just leave something like this out here, would they?

The door behind him opened. He jumped, pulled his pistol and turned.

It was Anwar, his assault rifle ready. He gave his partner a look as they both lowered their weapons. Keaney just shook his head.

"You alright, mate?" asked Anwar.

"Tired, jumpy, edgy, hungry...have I missed anything?" Keaney answered with a chuckle. Seeing the concerned glance, he added, "If I feel remotely close to breaking, you're the first to know, deal?"

The concern remained, but his friend nodded. He got on his comms link.

"Main building clear," he reported.

"Clear," agreed Anwar, also speaking into his link.

"_Clear_," said Coupland.

"_Clear_," said McCoy.

"_Clear_," said Redfield.

"Charie Lead, this is Charlie Red, village is secure. Roll on in, Captain."

* * *

The engines of the truck roared loudly over the Humvees as the column drove down into the village. They positioned themselves into the same semi-circle formation they always used to protect one of their flanks; the trucks on the inside, the Humvees on the outside, and the tank a little ways to the left to be able to move away at a moment's notice.

Sully killed the engine and hopped out, petting the hood. On their travels, they had managed to reinforce their vehicles with scrap metal they had found in various homes, and so the Humvees, the medical bus and the communications truck had a more barbaric look to them with the extra armor plating. The truck modifications, Sully had made himself- extra reinforcement and three pitchforks tied under the cab with the spikes jutting out, in case there was something to run down with a little extra _oomph_. It was not much, but he was proud of it. He next wanted to add chainsaws to the sides to give added lethal protection, but so far, no luck.

He leaned back and called to the back, "Alright, everyone out!"

The doors and hatches opened and the men started filing out, clutching their bags and rifles. Cautiously at first, then with more ease, they wandered around the village, getting a good view of it. Some immediately ran to check the shacks for food and supplies. One or two of the men lay their sleeping mats down on the ground and proceeded to nap on the spot.

Terry, Jason and Tucker stepped out of their Humvee and gazed around. Tucker adjusted his sand-stained glasses.

"Think they have indoor plumbing?" he asked.

Terry looked at the homes, which all looked more like outhouse shacks than they did living quarters.

"No," he replied. "No I do not."

"Still better than that one village with all the roofs missing," Jason pointed out. "And then it rained, that was a bastard of a time."

"Alright, lads!" ordered Sergeant Price, stepping out of his Humvee. "I want this place cleaned up and cleared out ASAP. We're going to be staying here a while, I want to make it cozy. Come on, move it!"

He kicked at the napping soldiers, who grumbled, stood up and rolled their stuff up to move. The rest of the company spread out, weapons half-ready, to check the huts.

"Make sure you save one of those for me, lads!" Doc called out, stepping off the medical bus with his large pack almost weighing him down. "I need a spot to put all my junk!"

"Oi, Doc."

Sykes hobbled up to him from the back of the truck. On their journeys they had managed to fashion a pair of crutches to help him move around on his leg. It was awkward and cumbersome, but it meant he could move up and about and not be confined to his bed, and so he gladly accepted them.

"Can we try it? My leg?" he asked the medic.

Doc sighed. "Spencer, it's only been three weeks. A break that bad is not going to be anywhere near close to healing."

"But I think it's feeling better! It's not hurting as much in the mornings anymore!"

"Spence-"

"Please, Doc? Just try it out?"

The wounded man looked at him with soft eyes. Doc knew what this was about- he wanted to get back in the game, to be useful to the company again. For weeks now he had had to sit back while everyone else did all the work, and while most men would take that as a sign to relax and accept it, Sykes was frustrated and determined to get back to his duty.

"Alright, we'll set up my quarters and then we'll test it out," he said, hoping to please him.

Sykes grinned and hobbled off with the medic. Behind them, Sergeant Major Grimes hopped down off the truck.

"Spread out! Make sure everything gets checked!" he shouted. Three weeks as sergeant major had helped him grow into the role and become more assertive. The job was growing on him. He could probably keep the role when they were out of this current crisis.

He turned to the staff sergeants, who had gathered around to receive orders. "Weber and Riley are going to take the south flank and maintain sniper support. I want the French to have round-the-clock guard coverage, two men per shift. Tell Weaver to take position on the roof of the headquarters to keep an eye on the perimeter. Have a couple of ours take guard outpost every night."

"Right, boss," Ryan nodded and left, Carter and Pratt behind him.

Satisfied, he went to where Captain Wallace and his lieutenants were overseeing the operations. "The men are getting set up, sir," he reported.

"What a dump," muttered Lieutenant Hunter, looking around in disdain.

"People live here," Port reminded him, irritated.

"And where are they? Because they're not here. There's not a soul alive aside from us."

Scott scanned the desert. It was all quiet, not a soul in sight. The rebels would not simply leave a village like this out here uninhabited, would they?

"Keep an eye on the horizons. We'll kip out for a few days, see if trouble comes." He turned back to them. "I'm wondering more if the rebels are having the same problems we are. Maybe they're under attack as well."

"It hasn't stopped them from being attacking us," Port reminded.

"It was just a thought." Scott looked around at his men setting up. "Nevertheless, we'll keep our eyes open."

The lieutenants nodded and went about their business. Scott took a sip from his canteen and prepared to settle in for a long break.

* * *

The metal cast was off. Sykes was leaning on his crutch, his wounded leg lifted slightly as he leaned against his crutch. Doc stood at the opposite wall facing him.

"Alright, Spencer, walk this way. Without the crutch."

Sykes placed the crutch on the bed and stood upright. Already his teeth were gritted, a pained look in his eyes.

"Come on. This way."

He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth, and took a step forward with his good leg. There was a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his face, which did not go unnoticed by the medic. He braced himself, ready to jump for it if needed.

Sykes hesitantly raised his bad leg, reached it forward, stepped down...and immediately let out a cry of pain and collapsed. Doc moved as fast as he could, fast enough to get his arm under the falling soldier, but not fast enough to sturdy himself. The result was both of them falling onto the bed, one on top of the other.

"_Getoffame_!" Sykes demanded, pushing Doc roughly off of him. He nestled back onto the bed, face red in anger.

Doc sighed and grabbed the leg brace.

"Listen, Spencer-"

"You don't need to bloody tell me, I know what you're going to say," grumbled Sykes as the cold metal boot was slid back on. "I know I'm bloody useless."

"You're not useless, you just need to take it slow."

"Yeah, yeah. Take it slow. That's all they all ever say, yeah? Take it slow. Well, I've been taking it slow. I've been taking it slow for almost a month. While everyone else is out on patrol and keeping the camp safe, I've been cooped up with my leg in a cast, eating SPAM and wondering if I'll ever run the track again when I get home. While everyone else gets to be a real soldier, I get to be a cripple."

"Spencer, don't be like that-"

"_Don't bloody call me Spencer_!" Sykes suddenly shouted, taking Doc aback. "_My mum calls me Spencer! My aunt, my brother, _they_ call me Spencer, not you_!"

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry!" Doc insisted, trying to calm him down.

"Do you know what it's like, eh? To be useless and laid up while there's a war on? To not be any good in a fight when the enemy comes knocking at your doorstep? To not even be able to defend yourself or your mates when bullets start flying and bleedin' centaurs start riding through your camp tearing shit up? I don't think you do! I don't think you know what it's like when everything's gone to hell and your brother is missing and your leg's broken in a couple of places? Do you know what it's like to be a cripple in the middle of a killzone? _I don't think you do_!"

He glared at the medic, who just sat there, mouth agape with a look of hurt on his face. When there was no further answer, he lay back down, folded his arms, and looked off to the side while his brace was fixed back on.

It was true, he could not deny that, Doc thought as he returned to his work setting up his quarters, throwing the occasional glance over at his distraught patient. He had never broken a bone in his life, worst he'd ever had was a sprained ankle going up the stairs of his apartment back home. Out in the field, he could move about as quick as a dash, and while he could not shoot the broad sign of a barn, his ability to be anywhere at any time when someone was wounded had built him a bit of a reputation within the company.

If he could not do his job, how would it be? Well, they would be down a medic, or in this case their only medic, and that was not a good thing at all. Right now, he was the only thing keeping the company patched up, and without him the patches would be broken instantly. But even by that standard, how would he feel?

Like rubbish, he imagined. Like a failure. He saw the point.

Sykes had been a trooper these last couple of weeks, but he still had a ways to go before he completely recovered. Still, there was improvement. He might even be like brand new someday. Doc hoped so, at least.

* * *

The camp was set up now. Tents were propped up, fires were started, foxholes were dug around the perimeter. The men were settling in for the night, and one of the more important rituals was underway: food.

Archie had his little set-up at the back of the medical bus, distributing tonight's dinner. All they had left was canned food of different varieties, so he had a system in place; the men formed a line, and he gave out a random can to each man. Each can was unlabeled, so it was a surprise as to what each one got, were it not for Archie's own intuition.

"Dried peaches," he announced, after shaking the can up to his ear. He tossed the can to Morrison, who took it and moved on, and grabbed the next can as Tucker came up. He brought it to his ear and shook it.

"Mashed broccoli," he said, causing Tucker to go wide-eyed. He laughed. "I'm just kidding, it's pork and beans."

The Irishman sighed and moved on as Captain Wallace approached them.

"Ah, here you are, Captain." Archie grabbed a can, shook it next to his ear, and tossed it to his C.O. "Tonight's a mashed potatoes night for you, I'm afraid, hope it's not too bad."

Scott opened the can and sniffed. Sure enough, mashed potatoes. He let out a chuckle.

"How do you do that, lad?" he asked.

"Just one of my many gifts, sir," Archie replied, shaking another can and throwing it to Finn, announcing it as pasta. Then his smile faded to little more of a grimace.

"A bit of a dying art, I'm afraid," he said. "This here is the last of it."

The good atmosphere was soiled a bit at this news. But then, Wallace knew it was to be expected, after weeks on the road. The question is, what would they do about it? What _could_ they do about it?

He walked away as Archie gave a can to Carter, announcing that it was some sort of fruit. He walked through the camp, eating his potatoes on a stomach that was filling up with dread at the news that he would have ninety starving soldiers on his hands very soon. Around him his men were either eating their cans or heating the cold food over the fires. All of them unaware of the shortage of food or that this may be their last meal for a time.

What was going through their minds, he wondered. Thoughts of home, thoughts of loved ones? Thoughts of the enemy that was moving in from all directions? It was hard to tell.

He ate half the can, then closed the top and threw the remains up to Weaver, who had situated himself on top of the roof of the gas chamber. He had found a folding chair and a large umbrella on their travels, and had situated himself as though he were at the beaches instead of the middle of the desert. With his aviators on his nose and his MK-14 in his hands, he could see everything for a good dozen or so miles in any direction.

"How we looking, Weaver?" Scott called up.

"All's clear for miles, Captain," the marksman called. "Nothing out here but us."

"Aye. Let's keep it that way," was the captain's reply, stalking off again.

He walked towards the gas pumps, where Sully and Murphy were sticking a long metal rod down the tank to check for oil. Murphy pulled it back up, showing nothing but the clean metal coating. He looked over at his commander with a sullen expression.

"Did you check the others?" Scott asked.

"Aye," said Sully grimly. "They're all right. Not much, but enough."

_That will have to do_, Wallace thought. "How are we?"

"Well, Captain, if we can move these vehicles on dust," the machine gunner shrugged, "I think we'll be alright."

Murphy packed his tools away and offered the captain a forced smile as he walked off towards the truck. Sully picked up his machine-gun and walked off to get food.

No food, no fuel, Wallace thought bitterly as he continued on his camp inspection. Water must be low by now as well, as did the little things like sunscreen and matches. So what did they have left? Sand, sun, and bullets. They had plenty of those.

He approached the technician truck as Stern hopped out of the cab.

"Evenin', Captain," he greeted, sounding cheerful despite their situation.

"Security set up?" In addition to their guards, they had begun to deploy their motion sensors on the edge of the camps. They were finicky at best, unreliable at least 90% of the time, but then again, they were prototypes, developed and tested by Stern himself, and so they rarely ever used them. Lately, they found that the little extra bit helped, if only very slightly.

"Armstrong and Matthews are finishing it up now, sir." He reached for his walkie and brought it to his mouth. "Danny, you two almost done?"

"_Aye_," Danny reported in. "_Just setting down the last ones_."

* * *

Danny jammed one of the sensors into the ground and activated it, then stood and stared out at the horizon. The setting sun against the dunes was still a beautiful sight that he was not tired of. Sometimes at base, whenever they got sent lemonade packets, he would sit in a beach chair with a glass of lemonade and just watch the sun set. Back home, he rarely had a chance to do this on top of work and chores, and even out here wasn't too common with all his duties, so he relished it when he got the chance.

"So I'm just saying," Matthews said, slipping along the sand. Poor footing plus the heavy machine-gun he carried was lousy for movement out on the dunes. "Three weeks, we haven't come across a single friendly unit. We've barely seen anyone aside from rebels. How do we know Command hasn't just left us for dead already? Hell, how do we know they haven't pulled all of our forces out of here?"

"We'd know if the entire UN was pulled out by now," came the reply. "The rebels would be throwing parties from one end of the country to the other."

"So then where _is_ everyone? Three weeks and we've found _nothing_."

"I don't know. Hiding, maybe? Consolidating all our strength in one area?"

"Would that do any good?"

"Fuck if I know."

They hiked up to the top of the tallest dune with the final sensor. Danny jammed it into the ground.

"I mean, even if it was turning out that the whole country was under siege, I think we would have found some sort of evi...dence...by now..."

He trailed off, his face falling and going pale. He and Matthews stepped forward, their eyes not believing what they were seeing.

Bodies. A large pile of corpses, clumped together behind the sand dune, out of sight by the force coming in from the other end, fifty, maybe sixty bodies piled together. They had been thrown on top of each other haphazardly, just thrown around like they were sacks of potatoes. Flies were buzzing along them, nestling on the dried, bloated skin of the fallen. But the worst part was the smell. In the village, they wouldn't have been able to catch it, but here the smell hit them in full force, like raw sewage in the dump left out for a few days.

The two men stared in horror at the mass grave. Danny took a step forward, hand over his mouth to cover the stench. One corpse of an elderly man was staring right at him, his dead eyes colorless and misty. A fly landed on one of them, moved slightly, and then took off again.

Danny turned to Matthews. "Get Captain down here, now!" he ordered.

"Aye," said Matthews, taking a step backwards. "Make sure none of them start moving!" And then he was off, almost tripping over his feet as he left.

Danny raised his MP-5 and pointed them at the pile. He lone child, probably no older than six, laying across two other bodies. The boy was staring past him, staring into the sky without really seeing the sky.

He died with a smile on his face, as if he had found whatever had killed him extremely funny.

* * *

Doc flashed his light at the bodies, examining them as well as he could in the light. Behind him, Scott and Port were awaiting the results. Several soldiers had taken up a defensive position around the pile to serve as protection in case of a night attack.

"It's the same as the ones that were killed at base," Doc called out, standing. "Not a scratch on them."

"How is that possible?" Port demanded. "They kill without leaving a mark. Even if they were all stabbed or strangled, there would be some signs of it. But this is just nothing."

"It's that green light," Scott reminded him. "Hits and kills without even leaving a mark. No weapon alive can do that."

"It could be like that woman was saying," Charlie said, looking over his shoulder. "Could be magic."

"Now don't go starting spreading that around, lad," his C.O. said sternly. "There's no such thing."

"I don't care if it's magic or nuclear warfare," replied Sergeant Price, taking a swig from his canteen. "This isn't war right here, gents. It's genocide. They're breaking all the rules and they don't care."

"It wasn't to draw us out, either," Grimes noted. "There wasn't a strategic gain to it. They did it just because these people were here."

"They don't care if they find us or not," Wallace said. "They're content with burning down the entire country from end to end."

And after they were done here, then what? Southwards to Africa, raze the entire continent, or north into Russia and tear the country into chaos? Russia had been known to withstand some of the greatest sieges of the last couple of centuries, but they had had winter on their side those times, and it would be many more months before winter struck again. And from Russia, then to Europe, and right up to the Queen's doorstep. If they were not there already. If they had not _started_ there.

The girl had said, "_England is ours_." He shuddered to think of what that actually meant for the people back home.

Too much of their enemy was unknown or unclear, and their enemy was too deranged to tell about it themselves. They needed something logical to grasp their hands on, otherwise they had no means of defense.

He looked around at all the bodies. How the hell would they be able to bury this many bodies? He didn't want to burn them, it felt disrespectful, but it would take too much time to bury each and every individual body. And they could not leave them out for the buzzards; that was too cruel.

"Can we throw a blanket over them or something?" he asked.

"I don't think we have one big enough," Port answered. "It would probably get blown away anyway."

"We can't afford to waste gas on burning them. We barely have enough for ourselves."

"Sir, I can set some men aside to bury a few big graves for them," Grimes insisted. "Ten to a grave, maybe?"

"Can you do it tomorrow?"

"Aye. I can oversee it if you want."

"Do it. Try to get it done by nightfall."

"Aye, sir."

"Alright, the rest of you, get some shut eye. Set up some guards to oversee the bodies, maybe start organizing them. Everyone else set about to defending the perimeter."

The group broke away, some falling back to camp, some sticking around to begin their work of burying the dead. Pat Marek walked up to Danny, who was standing guard over the pile, and offered him a swig from his canteen, which Danny accepted.

"Lord works in mysterious ways," the Irishman said, as cheerful as ever.

"I don't think He'd want this," Danny said, nodding his head towards the corpses as two of the men picked up the body of the little boy. "Killing innocents doesn't work like that. They're supposed to be protected from shit like this."

"Aye," his friend agreed. "I'll make sure to tell Him that."

"Aye, well," Matthews stepped up the dune to head back to camp, "tell Him also that if he sends any buzzards this way come tomorrow, I'm shooting one and having Archie cook it for tomorrow's dinner. Haven't had a good turkey in months."

Danny could not help but laugh at that, as absurd as it was. Buzzard meat could not possibly be sterile, what with all the nasty shit they gobbled down. Still, he had to agree, some meat would be greatly appreciated right about now. Anything would be better than the canned stuff.

Will O'Malley came over to them. "You can get some shut eye. We'll take care of this." There was a troubled look in his eyes, but his face stayed as tight as it always did.

Danny and Marek nodded and trudged back to base, weapons in hand. In the distance, there was a commotion; a storm of some kind, but more vicious than they usually saw. Thunder out here was rare, but usually it meant an approaching sandstorm. Sandstorms were terrible, but tolerable. They actually preferred it sometimes because it meant they could just stay inside most days and wait it out.

This looked like a bad one there. Bigger than they had seen out here so far. Unbeknownst to them, it was the same storm cloud that was currently threatening to take Balad, where Khalid Shiek Ali and his men were preparing to defend it to the last man.

"Hope whoever is out there stays indoors," Marek noted.

"Aye," Danny agreed.

And they headed towards the trucks to see if there was any dinner left.

* * *

**Oh, I'm glad I finally made it this far. I'm really looking forward to what's coming in the next few chapters.**

**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed, and as always, peasoup.**


	13. Burying the Cash

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** Wow. There was a ton of hits on the last chapter. I'm pretty happy with that. Hopefully this chapter does as well. Also, if you're just tuning in, make sure you read past chapters instead of the latest ones so you're not completely lost on what's going on, haha.

This is actually a chapter I've had drafted for a couple years now. This is an entirely light comedic chapter, pure silliness and stupidity while also wrapping up a plot point, so I hope you're in the mood for that.

Quick note: Despite my research into it, I don't really have an ideal description of what a fully-grown Blast-Ended Skrewt looks like. I always just imagined them as a scorpion/lobster hybrid with an exploding rear end, so I went with that description. This is why we needed the things in the fourth movie.

Why do I bring this up, you ask? Well, you'll see.

* * *

Burying the Cash

* * *

Captain Wallace stepped into the medical shack and immediately stifled laughter. Rarely did he see such a ridiculous sight. Sitting side by side on one of the cots and looking utterly defeated was a terribly sunburned Jason, a completely ashen-covered Tucker, and a Terry that was covered from head to toe in sandy muck.

"Well," said the captain. "Busy day, gentlemen?"

"Aye, Captain," all three voices chimed in despondently.

"_Ow_!" Jason winced as Doc dabbed at his lobster-red cranium with ointment. "Easy, mate, that hurts!"

"You want your skin to get rock-hard and start peeling off in clumps?" Doc asked.

"No..."

"Then stop being a baby and let me do my job."

"I still can't believe things got this messed up," said Tucker, using a rag to wipe the soot from his glasses.

"Hey Doc, I found your-" Danny walked into the shack, stopped, took one long look at the three "casualties", and then burst into laughter.

"Oh, man...wh-what the hell happened to you? Oh, I wish I had my camera, this is epic," he giggled, tears of laughter running down his face.

"Piss off," Jason growled.

"Man, I'm going to need a long, hot shower." Terry scrubbed at his arms with a towel. "This shit is not coming off."

"Okay." Wallace stood over them, arms folded. "Start from the beginning. What happened?"

"I have to hear this one." Danny eagerly pulled up a chair and sat down, giving them his undivided attention.

Tucker pushed his still-dirty glasses onto his nose and looked left and right at the other two. Jason looked down at his feet and sighed. Terry said nothing, concentrating solely on cleaning himself off. So Tucker turned back to the captain to tell the story.

"I guess it all started around noonish..."

* * *

_Three hours earlier..._

* * *

_Terry and Tucker were cleaning their weapons when Jason approached them and squatted down, a contemplative look on his face._

"_Okay," he began. "So I've been thinking-"_

"_Careful, don't want to worsen the tumor," Terry said, not looking up._

"_...Thinking about what the captain said-"_

"_So you're going to start showering regularly then?" asked Tucker._

"_N...no, dammit, this isn't about my hygiene, you twat. This is about the money."_

_Terry shrugged. "Not much to think about. Captain says we need to ditch the cash somewhere. The way he went on about it, he'll probably strip-search us if he thinks we've got any of it. So I'm thinking we'll end up giving it to some village; might as well be charitable with it."_

"_Aye, we could do that," Jason said, a grin creeping onto his face. "Or we could bury it."_

_This finally caught the direct attention of the other two, and both looked up from their works. Terry raised an eyebrow._

"_You taking the piss?" he asked._

"_I'm serious. Look, I figure, we take some shovels and other gear, we go out maybe a mile or two, pick a spot, bury the bag in it, and then report back in. Then when everything gets quiet again, we come back, dig it up, and no one's the wiser."_

"_And how do you propose we find it when it's all done? It's a big desert, mate. It's going to take more than a treasure map to find the 'X' when it's all over."_

"_Simple. We mark it with a transponder. Radar can pick it up again when we come back."_

_Terry shook his head. "Jace, this has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. Is this really your plan?"_

"_Look." Jason leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "We can't keep it with us. Captain will search us, and then he'll do it himself, and then we're all piss out of luck. I'm not letting our money be destroyed, not when we've earned it-"_

"_Earned it? We took if off a dead sod!" exclaimed Tucker._

"_Shhh!" Jason put his hand over the Irishman's mouth. "Point is, it's our money, and we're entitled to it. That money's going to set us up for life after this. Why destroy it, when we can put it on hold for a little while?"_

_He stood back up and looked down at his friends, from one to the other. Tucker shrugged uncertainly. This had disaster written all over it, even he could see that. Nevertheless, he was right; they could no longer afford to keep the money with them. Terry sighed._

"_Fine. This is a bad idea," he said, "but we'll help."_

"_Excellent!" Jason grinned. "I'll go get the bag. You two get ammo and water, and we'll meet on the outskirts in about half an hour."_

_He clapped his friends on their backs and hurried off. Terry looked at Tucker._

"_Why do I see this turning into a really bad day?"_

* * *

_They met half an hour later on the edge of camp. Tucker wore his boone hat and was applying sunscreen to his face and arms. Jason held the money bag, his G-36c strapped to his back. Terry filled the canteens and distributed ammunition. Tucker grabbed the bag, which contained three shovels, some rope, and extra rations, and hoisted the straps onto his shoulders._

"_You sure about this? I mean, if we all put our heads together, we can come up with a more foolproof plan," Terry said._

"_Like what, burn it?" Jason retorted. "We've not really been granted a whole selection of options here. If you're so sure it will fail, then why come along?"_

"_What, and let you two bugger off with all the money? Fat chance."_

"_You saying you don't trust us?"_

"_With six hundred thousand? I think I trust the the blokes in the masks more."_

"_Ix-nay, _ix-nay_," Tucker suddenly spouted, turning to face behind them._

_The others looked up to find Stern approaching them, an apple in his hand. He gave them a smile as they stood and faced him._

"_Hey guys," he greeted. "What's up?"_

"_Nothing," Tucker said swiftly, still trying to keep the bag out of sight._

"_Yeah? You look like you're headed on safari-"_

"_We're not burying the-" His words were cut off due to Terry's elbow colliding with his side._

"_Burying the...what?"_

"_Nothing, Mikey. We're just going out, right, mate?" Terry glared at Tucker, who nodded. "Right. Well, we'd best be on our way, then."_

"_Out?" Stern frowned. "Out into the desert?"_

"_Yeah, we're, uh...running patrol. Just doing some scouting, you know how it goes," answered Jason hastily._

_The technician looked skeptically from man to man, and then his eyes fell on the shovel handles that was sticking out of Tucker's bag._

"_Why do you need shovels on patrol?" he asked._

"_Okay! We'll be going now." Terry grabbed Tucker's arm and dragged him away. "We'll be back in a couple of hours, Mikey, try not to let the camp worry about us."_

_Jason nodded and followed after them. Stern just stood confused._

"_Well...need an extra pair of eyes?"_

"_No thanks!"_

_And the three men trooped out into the desert. Stern watched them go until they were black dots in the sand, then took a bite from his apple and walked away, shaking his head._

* * *

_It had probably been a joke, Terry thought to himself, and a cruel one on God's part, to put this much sand in one place. That was all there was, as far as the eye could see: sand, sand, and even more sand. No trees, no puddles of water, no cacti, not even a bush for them to take a piss behind. Nothing but sand._

_He, Jason and Tucker walked single-file, with him in the front and Tucker in the rear. Jason, holding the money bag like it was his newborn, placed himself in the middle. He did not have his weapon drawn; the other two did. In Terry's mind, this was not a team expedition, but two soldiers providing escort to a fool and his money._

"_Jesus, it's hot out," Jason moaned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Feels like I'm being roasted over an open flame."_

"_Did you remember to put on sunscreen when we left?" asked Tucker._

"_No, I ran out of it yesterday. I tried to bum some off some of the lads, but no one would spare."_

"_And you still decided to trek out here?" Terry said, looking over his shoulder at him. "It's a sunny, cloudless day with a one-oh-one degree temperature! Are you bleedin' _

_stupid?"_

"_Well, I figured we would get it done and be back before it got bad!" Clearly that thought process was not working. Already Jason's skin was turning beet red._

"_You want some of mine?" Tucker offered._

"_No, I'll manage."_

"_Just as well. I'm almost out of it myself."_

"_So typical." Terry looked back ahead, shaking his head. "Do you ever think ANYTHING through?"_

"_Bugger off, Terry."_

"_You must have the biggest track record of acting without thinking. I mean, we find a dead soldier, you impulsively take his money-"_

"_I said _piss off_."_

"_Then we have to get rid of the money, and you get the bright idea to bury it in a spot that we'll probably never find again-"_

"_Terry, mate," Tucker chimed in, sensing trouble, "this isn't helping."_

"_And then we head out into the driest, sandiest place on God's given earth, and you didn't even put on bloody sunscreen? It's ninety degrees on a COLD day out here, for Chrissakes-"_

_Terry's speech was interrupted by Jason pushing him roughly forward. He stumbled, but caught himself and whirled around to face his "assailant," who at the moment looked just as murderous as he felt._

"_Big mistake, mate," he spat._

"_I'm full of them," Jason retorted. "Isn't that what you just got done rambling on about?"_

"_Even for you, that was pretty stupid."_

"_Guys!" Tucker pushed in between them, hands out to keep them separated. "Isn't it bad enough we've got two enemy forces to worry about? Do we really need to be having a go at each other?"_

_The two glared at each other for a few more seconds before Jason backed down._

"_If you don't like my plans," he spat at Terry," the get off your lazy arse and start coming up with your own instead of relying on me all the time."_

_He pushed past them, still holding on to the bag. Terry turned and followed suit, face locked in begrudging annoyance, not saying a word. Tucker followed last, eyes daring nervously from one man to the other as they went._

* * *

_They went another mile in silence before Jason stopped and told them this was a good spot to dig. The place was a a low slope in an area of sandy hills, a spot where a company of rebels could have a bead on them from all direction and they would have no escape. The only available form of cover was a large rock to their right that could easily hide all three, but that was all._

"_This will be good," Jason said, placing the bag on the ground by his feet. "Should be easy enough to remember, right?"_

_The comment was directed at Terry, who said nothing. Sensing more trouble, Tucker took off his bag and pulled out the shovels._

"_Right," he said, "we'd better get this done before it gets dark then."_

_He handed Terry his shovel, who yanked at it roughly and wordlessly went to his work. Jason took his and winked casually at Tucker, trying to alleviate the tension, though he still looked troubled._

_The three began digging in the center of the pit. The next twenty minutes then dissolved into a mess of shouting, yelling, spitting, and a couple very near misses with the shovels._

"_Damn it, Tuck, watch it!" yelled Terry as the shovel just barely missed his head._

"_Sorry!" the Irishman apologized. "Wouldn't it make more sense to dig father apart?"_

"_We're digging one hole, not three," Jason responded with, stopping to rest due to his sunburn getting more severe._

"_Aye, but can't we take turns, then? Because someone's gonna eventually lose their- Christ!" He ducked under Terry's shovel._

"_Okay, that's it." Terry threw his shovel down and grabbed his rifle. "I'm going back."_

"_Oye." Jason jammed his shovel into the dirt and turned to face him. "We're not done here yet."_

"_Mate, every scoop I take, two scoops fall in. I'm fighting a losing battle and I'm gonna lose my head to one of you if we keep this up. This plan's retarded and I'm done with it."_

"_Oh that's just like you!" The anger from before was building up again. "You never come up with a plan, and you do nothing but talk bollocks if someone else has one! It's like you live to piss on anyone that isn't you! What bloody use are you otherwise?"_

"_And what does that say about you?" Terry fumed. "Mr. Shoot First, Questions Later! You act on impulse and then you get angry when it all falls apart! Everything you 'plan' is little more than a daydream! It's all just an excuse to cause trouble for you, isn't it?"_

"_At least I give enough of a shit to TRY! At least I care enough to try and save the money that's going to build my bloody future!"_

"_Oh, right, I forgot, your future. The future you'd already have if you would _stop gambling your fucking money away, you useless cunt_!"_

"_Alright, _mate_, if I'm so useless, why are you here? Hmm? If I'm this big loser who can't get anything right, what the fuck are you doing hanging around me then?_

"_Good bloody question, isn't it!"_

"_Guys! Knock it o-"_

_Tucker stopped mid-sentence. His eyes widened in horror; his jaw dropped. Jason and Terry turned their heads towards him. He was staring past them, trying to speak but not being able to._

"_What?" asked Terry._

"_O...oh..."_

"_Spit it out, man, what is it?" demanded Jason._

"_Oh...ho...ly...SHIT!"_

_With a yelp, Tucker turned and instantly tripped over his feet. Not pausing a moment, he scrambled to his knees, grabbed his shotgun, and bolted for the rock, screaming "Oh shit!" over and over again until he reached it. He ducked behind it and did not emerge._

"_What the-" The two turned their heads back towards each other, confused, until they saw a large shadow fall over them. Slowly they turned their heads to their rear to see what was causing it._

_Both pairs of eyes widened as they stared up at it._

_Both sets of jaws dropped._

_They were staring right into the face of a giant scorpion._

* * *

"Wait, wait," Danny interrupted, holding his hand up. "A giant _what_?"

"Scorpion," said Tucker.

"...You're serious."

"Have you checked how hydrated they are?" Wallace asked Doc.

"Well, they WERE out in the desert for three hours," the medic reminded him.

"Captain, I'm serious!" The soot-covered private exclaimed. "It was massive! Ten, fifteen feet tall at least! Shell was hard as tank armor! And its arse exploded!"

Here Danny burst into laughter again.

"Seriously? It's ARSE exploded?" He asked through hysterics.

"How about a drug test, have you done that?" The captain asked Doc again.

"Oh, okay," Terry threw the towel down and glared up at all of them, "so masked people using green light to kill soldiers, twenty-foot giants that can throw tanks around like footballs, skeletal winged horses and murderous centaurs, those are all fine, those are all normal. A ten-foot-tall scorpion with an exploding arsehole, automatically we must be on drugs."

Danny did not respond to that; too busy, he was, trying to stifle his laughter. Wallace and Doc exchanged glances. Doc shrugged.

"World's going to Hell," he said. "I s'pose anything's possible at this point."

"Fair enough," Wallace allowed, turning back to his disheveled troopers. "Alright, lads, we'll take your word for it. Please continue."

* * *

_The scorpion was indeed ten feet tall, at the very least, and fifteen, maybe twenty feet long. It had risen out from the sand dunes, though whether it has always been there or it was just passing by was anybody's guess. Its shell was gray and, as Tucker would later say, was as tough as tank armor. The claws were smaller than one would normally expect, and the tail was shorter, but it did not by any means make it any less daunting._

_Terry and Jason just gaped up at it._

"_Ho...ly-"_

"_SHIT!"_

_Almost at the snap of the fingers, the two grabbed their weapons and barreled out of their quarter-dug hole. They ran harder than either of them had ever run in their lives, and each one was hellbent on outrunning the other; whatever got them away faster worked for them. They made it to the rock, Jason climbing over the top, Terry going around the side, diving behind it._

_Tucker was curled up in a ball with his shotgun in his lap when they arrived._

"_Is it gone?" he asked._

"_Would we be hiding behind the bleedin' rock if it was gone?!" Terry shouted angrily._

"_What the hell IS that thing?" demanded Jason. "How do they even get them that big?"_

"_Is it onto us?" Tucker's panicking heightened. "Did it follow us?"_

_Terry cautiously peeked out over the top of the rock._

"_It's just standing there," he told them. "It doesn't look up for a race."_

_The other two glanced over as well. The scorpion had not moved from its position; it stared at them, but for some reason was not going after them._

"_Maybe it's not hungry?" Tucker wondered hopefully._

"_Well...it doesn't LOOK hungry, anyway," agreed Terry._

_The trio retreated back behind cover. Jason turned to the other two._

"_Alright," he said, "we've got to go and get the money bag."_

"_What?!" hissed Terry, keeping his voice low. "I know you've got a one-track mind, but did you just suddenly forget about the giant goddamn scorpion out there?"_

"_It's not moving! It's just sitting there picking its arse!"_

"_Yeah, until one of us goes over there and then it decides it wants a chew toy!"_

"_Well we can't leave it out there! What if it eats it?"_

"_Better it than us! Six hundred thousand isn't worth dying over, mate!"_

"_Look, if one of us goes, it should be no problem!"_

"_And if it doesn't work?"_

"_Well, then I hope it's you that goes."_

"_Oh, well that just warms my heart-"_

"_Is this really the fucking time to be arguing?!" Tucker lost it then, screaming at the both of them. "There's a giant fucking scorpion out there and all you can do is argue? Shut the fuck up and let's sort this shit out!"_

_He inhaled and exhaled deeply; rarely had he yelled at anyone that hard, much less these two, who were the lead two of the trio while he tagged along. His friends stared at him, speechless. They looked at him, at each other, then back at him. Finally, Terry spoke._

"_Alright then," he said, his voice with a tone of surprise in it. "Who's going?"_

_There was silence then as the three kept looking from one to the other. None of them were going to man up; at least, not willingly._

"_Usual way, then?" Terry asked._

"_Aye, usual way," Jason agreed._

_They faced each other, held their right fist out as if to punch each other, shook their fists three times, and-_

"_Scissors beats paper," said Terry with a grin._

"_What? No, this is sheet metal."_

"_Bullshit, you lost. Tuck, you're up, lad."_

_He repeated the action, with Tucker this time, shaking fists three times and then making their motions._

"_Paper beats rock." Terry sat back against the rock. "My ass isn't getting chewed today."_

"_Alright." Jason turned to Tucker. "You and me, mate."_

_They both took a deep breath. Squeezing their eyes shut, they raised their fists, shook them three times, and made the motions. They waited a moment, cracked an eye open, then fully opened both._

"_Um..." Tucker looked up from his "scissors" to his friend's "rock". "Best two out of three?"_

"_Sorry, mate," Jason patted his back. "You're the guinea pig."_

"_You know what, on second though, go back to arguing. I honestly didn't mind it that much."_

"_Look," said Terry, "just get over there, grab the bag, and hurry on back. Easy-peasy."_

_Jason winked at him again. Tucker feebily got to his feet, using his shotgun for support standing up. He took another quick peek, ducked back when he confirmed it was still there, and looked at them._

"_For the record," he said, "you guys suck."_

"_Noted," Terry replied. "Now get going."_

_The unlucky soldier gulped, brought his weapon's stock to his shoulder, and trudged out._

_The one hundred or so meters felt like one hundred or so miles. The beast never moved, never made a noise or a motion other than its eyes occasionally darting around. Tucker glanced back and saw his mates covering him with their weapons, and that small relief did nothing to calm his nerves. He turned back and gulped again as he continued his trek._

_The bag was right in front of it. He looked it in the eye as he bent down to retrieve it. It watched him as he did. He did not exhale until he felt the bag handle become enclosed in his palm._

"_He's got it," Jason whispered to Terry from behind the rock. "Okay, bring it in, lad."_

_Tucker let out a nervous chuckle and was beginning to rise when the scorpion lifted itself up and stalked forward. The Irishman yelped and ducked back down as the legs thudded down around him. He felt the sun go out completely as it stopped directly above him._

_Jason and Terry had almost started shooting when it started moving, but refrained when it stopped. Now they just stood there in a panic, wondering what it would do. If that thing decided to take a nap there, then Tucker was a dead man._

_Trembling, Tucker looked up at the soft underbelly now above him. And then he saw the string; that long, white string attached to its stomach. That was a weird thing to for a scorpion to have, he pondered. What was that for? Carefully, with a mix of curiosity and terror, he reached up and gently brushed his fingertips against the-_

_BOOM!_

_The sound of a cannon being fired echoed off the dunes as the scorpion's rear end seemed to explode. Dust and sand shot up and out everywhere between twenty and fifty feet in the air._

"_Son of a bitch!" yelled Jason, ducking down behind the rock._

"_Son of a _bitch_!" exclaimed Terry, rolling back behind the rock._

"_SON OF A _BITCH_!" screamed Tucker, flinging himself backwards._

_He rolled onto his hands and knees and took off, shotgun still miraculously in hand._

"_C'mon, c'mon!" Terry shouted. "Almost there, move it!"_

"_Running running running RUNNING!"_

_Tucker tripped once more, right before their cover. At this point he was close enough for Terry to jump out, grab him by the shirt, and drag him back behind the rock._

_As he was running, the scorpion let out a high-pitched squeal and dove into the sand. The shockwave unleashed a tidal wave of sand, blurring everyone's vision when it came down. When it ended, the creature was gone, never to be seen by them again._

_The three fell to the ground, breathing heavily. Tucker was a mess, physically and emotionally. From his hair to his boots was covered in soot. His skin was dark and ash-covered. His boone hat had been blown off and his hair was messier than ever. His glasses were so dirty they wondered how he could see out of them. He was shaking uncontrollably._

"_It's all right, lad," Terry patted his back. "You're alright, it's okay."_

"_Never again..." gasped Tucker, over and over. "Never again..."_

"_Jeez, Tuck," joked Jason. "You only ran, like, forty feet. How out of shape are you?"_

"_Fuck...YOU..."_

"_Jace, knock it off." Terry glared at him. "Look at him, he's a wreck."_

"_Right, right. Sorry." Jason stood and looked Tucker over, stared down at his hands, frowned, looked around the ground, and then shot back up._

"_Where's the bag?" he asked._

_Tucker looked up. "What?"_

"_The bag. The reason that thing just sharded on you. Where is it?"_

_He blinked and looked down at his enclosed fist, which held only a bag handle and nothing else._

"_Uh..." he said, holding it up. "It fell off?"_

"_Aw, Christ!" Jason leaped over the rock._

"_Mate! Get back here! What if it's not gone?" Terry bolted after him, Tucker ever so reluctantly following._

_Jason skidded knee first into the sand and began digging, searching, ignoring the stinging pain of his sunburned arms. The other two slowed their approach as they surveyed the high level of sand that buried their previous efforts._

"_Lord," said Terry, "what a mess."_

"_Anyone know where my hat is?" Tucker looked around._

"_I think this is it." Terry bent down and picked up the charred remains of the boone hat. It barely made it out of the sand before it dissolved into small pieces and blew away with the wind._

"_Jesus..." he looked up at his friend. "How the hell are you still alive?"_

_Tucker just shrugged, at a loss for words._

"_Aha! Here-oh, no, that's Tuck's bag." Jason threw a mostly intact backpack aside and continued searching._

"_Oh, excellent," said Tucker, getting on his knees and looking through it. "Oh...bugger, all the rations are melted and the water is boiling hot...the rope's okay...well, okay aside from being covered in melted chocolate. Oh!" He looked up, suddenly grinning. "I've finally discovered something that can melt the chocolate bars. Matthews is gonna love me for this."_

"_Great, we'll call Command and let them know of your great accomplishment." Terry rolled his eyes. "Jason, let's get out of here. The thing's buried, isn't it? We did our job, let's get back to the company."_

_Jason ignored him and continued digging. Terry sighed. The lad was not leaving until he knew his money was safe. Stupid bugger._

_They waited what felt like forever as he dug, all the while parched but not willing to drink the water that would probably burn their throats going down. Finally, when Terry was about to grab the man's collar and drag him back to camp, Jason exclaimed, "Yes! I found it!"_

_The other two looked up swiftly as he pulled the half-scorched bag out of the sand. They huddled around him, their interest suddenly rekindled and with smiles on their faces as Jason wrenched open the top._

_The smiles were slowly erased from their faces when they looked inside._

_Terry stood up and shook his head. Tucker backed away, his gaze going from one friend to the other. Jason was frozen in place, not moving, not speaking, not blinking; they wondered if he was even breathing._

_Ten minutes passed. He never moved or said anything. It spooked the other two. They were used to him being loud and outspoken; this person was like an empty body, his spirit gone off for a walk. They wanted him to shout, to punch one of them, anything._

_Jason blinked, twice. Slowly, finally, he reached into the bag and pulled out a wad of blackened, crispy bills, ratty and pocket marked with holes. He squeezed very lightly and the bills snapped and fell apart in his hand. He shoved both hands in and yanked out clumps of scorched bills. His hands balled into fists, breaking apart the clumps. His body started shaking._

"_He's going to scream," stated Tucker._

"_Yup," agreed Terry._

_And scream he did. The others blocked their ears and winced as Jason raised his head to the sky and emitted a bloodcurdling scream that echoed off the dunes._

* * *

At the same time, Carter had looked up from his book and frowned. He thought he had just heard something...an animal? It had not been close by, a couple miles off, but whatever it was, wherever it was, it was loud.

"D'you hear that?" he asked.

Pratt had been facing away from him, not answering. His friend roughly tapped his back. He turned around, taking out one of the earplugs connected to his CD player.

"What?" he asked.

"You hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Sounded like a-" Carter paused, thought for a second, then shook his head. "Nevermind. Forget it."

Pratt shrugged, popped the earplug back into his ear and returned to his music. Carter returned to his book, the thought almost immediately fading from his mind.

* * *

_The sun was now on its way to descending for the day as the three weary soldiers trudged back to camp. Jason, his skin now as red as a lobster, walked staggeringly, his face one of hopelessness. Terry walked in front with distance between him and the others, his own face one of anger._

_They were both mad, Tucker knew that much. Jason was furious because he had just watched his future go up in smoke, and Terry was pissed because the whole adventure had been for nothing. That combined with the earlier resentment towards each other, and the slightest wrong movement could result in disaster._

_He had to try and mediate the situation. But what to talk about? Discussing home and what he would do when he made it back was asking to be shot. The weather? Jason would not appreciate that, what with him being a human barbeque at the moment. The men in the masks? No, that would just add more stress. He put more thought into it before an idea came to him._

"_You know what I don't get?" he asked, and he could almost imagine the silence physically shattering. "There are so many terrific, classic films out there, and what's the highest-grossing one of all time? The one about the bloody ship sinking. Granted, it's a bloody good film, but it doesn't seem right that a film based on a real tragedy eighty years ago should be the one that makes the most. What do you guys think?"_

_He was met only with silence. Reflecting upon it, he realized that was not the best conversational choice. Especially not for him, come to think of it; _Titanic_ had, after all, been an Irish-made ship._

_He sighed. "Man," he said, more to himself than the others, "I can't believe things have gotten this messed up-"_

"_Shut up, Tucker," Jason snapped._

"_Careful, Tuck," said Terry, not looking back at either of them. "You might make him angry."_

"_You, piss off. I don't want to hear anything out of you."_

"_Ooh, Mr. Bigshot is threatening me. I'm so scared."_

"_Come on, lads,' groaned Tucker. "Cool off, will you? It's been a rough enough day."_

"_Don't blame me because he's being a baby," Terry retorted. "I said from the beginning this was a shit idea. Granted, a massive scorpion with a cannon for a tailpipe never crossed my mind, but of course we were going to end up mucking up everything-"_

_Jason grabbed him and spun him around, stopping all of them. Tucker gulped. His friend's eyes were as red as his skin and his face was pained. He was taking this loss very hard._

"_You don't get it, do you?" he exclaimed. "I just watched my life go up in dust! I've got NOTHING, you understand that? That money was my one shot at finally getting my business off the ground, and it's all gone, and now I'm going to be picking up scraps in order to survive the rest of my life! Does any of that get through your thick head?"_

"_Tell the sob story to someone else," said Terry, his face unfazed. "I could care less."_

_He turned and continued trekking forward. Jason stayed where he stood, staring after him. His jaw clenched, his fists shook at his sides. Once more, anger was building inside him, about to explode._

"_Jace," Tucker chimed nervously, bracing himself for detonation. "Don't-"_

_With a roar, not quite as loud as before but still full of rage, Jason charged at Terry, who turned back only just in time to catch the collision full-force from the front. Jason tackled him to the ground and the two tumbled and rolled down one of the dunes._

"_Shit! Guys, stop!" shouted Tucker, running to stop them. He looked on as they wrestled in the sand, punching and grabbing at each other. _This was bad_, he thought through his cluttered, terrified mind. They had fought before, many times, but they had never come to physical blows. This was different; they really wanted to hurt each other._

_They fought like wild animals, with strength drawn from some reserved spot in themselves. They fought onto their knees, slipping with every attempt. Jason eventually grabbed Terry's shirt with one hand, pulled out his knife with the other, and brought it to the man's neck, freezing the fight in its place._

"_Woah!" Tucker hurried over and stopped at their sides, his hands up. "Hold up! Let's...let's calm down for a second, yeah? Let's no be hasty here!"_

_He was sweating profusely, and not because of the heat. A line was about to be crossed here, and once crossed one could not as easily cross back over. One false move and only two of them- maybe only one, or maybe even none of them- would be returning to camp._

"_Come on, guys, we don't have to do this!" he said. "Jason, mate, you kill him, you're not going to be able to walk away from it, you know that! Money is not worth killing each other over, mate, _please_, don't do this!"_

_Neither made a move, and for a split second, the knife looked like it was going to have a say in the matter. Then Jason pulled Terry up on his feet and closer so that they were eye-to-eye, their foreheads bumping against each other._

""_We get out of this," he growled in a low voice, "you go one way, and I go another. Got me? I don't ever want to see you again."_

_He roughly shoved him backwards. Terry, rifle still strapped to his shoulder, stumbled backwards, caught his balance as he was about to tumble, jumped back-_

_-And landed feet first into a spot in the sand that made a mucky _spleunk_! sound._

"_What the-?" Terry looked down at the ankle-high sand, then back at them. "This is wet!"_

"_Wet?" Tucker took a step forward, puzzled._

"_Yeah, it's like someone sprayed it with a hose." He tried to move his feet, and found he could not. "Sticky, too. I'm stuck."_

"_Seriously?"_

"_Seriously stuck, aye." He looked at them again, then frowned. "Did you two get taller?"_

_That was a peculiar question. Terry was the tallest of the three, with Tucker behind him and Jason as the shortest. Yet now, he looked shorter than Tucker...and was he getting shorter still, or was it his imagin-_

_And that was when Tucker and Jason noticed the sand, which before was ankle-high, was slowly creeping its way up to his knees. And then it became quite clear._

_They were not getting taller; he was getting shorter._

_Terry was stuck in a sinkhole._

"_Uh oh," said Tucker._

"_Uh oh," said Jason._

"_What?" Terry looked down at his knees, then slowly looking back up at them, realization setting in. "Oh, son of a BITCH."_

"_Toss us your rifle," Jason said as Tucker began to panic. "Maybe it'll make it go slower."_

_Terry unslung his G-3 and tossed it to Tucker, who almost dropped it through shaking hands. The sand crept past his knees, going no slower than before._

"_Right. Any more bright ideas?" he asked._

"_We've got to run back to camp," said Tucker. "Get help-"_

"_If either of you leave me here, I swear to Christ, I will come back and haunt the shit out of you! You hear me? Consider your asses haunted!"_

_The sand was at his waist now, moving past his stomach. He was sinking fast, and there was not much time left. Jason snapped his fingers, thinking frantically, when he got an idea._

"_Rope!" he exclaimed. "Tuck, get the rope out!"_

"_It's covered in chocolate-"_

"_Rope is rope, idiot, get it out!"_

_Tucker fumbled through the sticky wrappers of melted chocolate until he pulled out the long, brown-stained rope. He tossed it to Jason, who quickly but thoroughly tied a tight loop._

"_Tossing it over, Ter!" he called._

"_Well do it, don't just say it!" Already the sand was rising past his chest. "Come on, hurry up, will you?"_

"_Please God..." Jason waved it around over his head, once, twice, three times, and threw it forward._

_It landed, as they had hoped, right onto Terry's shoulder. He grabbed the noose with both hands and held on as tight as he could._

"_Alright, we're going to pull you in!" Jason glanced over his shoulder. "Tucker, help me."_

_Tucker nodded and grabbed the rope tight as Tucker grabbed from the other end._

"_Alright, on my count! One...two...three!"_

_Both men braced their stances and yanked back as hard as they could. Their skinny physiques and general lazy lifestyles, however, made themselves very apparent right then. They grunted and groaned with frustration, muscles bulging, faces red (Jason's moreso), but no matter what they did, they could not move him._

"_Hurry up, you tossers. I'm not keen on dying hemmph mmph." Terry's words were muffled as his mouth sank under the sand._

"_Terry! Terry, stay with us, mate!" Jason called, just as the rest of the blonde's head went under. "Shit!"_

"_What now?" asked Tucker, hopelessly._

"_Well, keep pulling, you fool! Don't stop, pull!"_

_They pulled and tugged and yanked and fought with all of their might for what felt like hours. The rope burned against their hands; for Jason, the strain against his sunburned arms was agonizing. As weary as they were becoming, they would not allow themselves to give up until their soldier was out of the pit. And with every attempt they made, their determination to do so grew larger and larger._

"_One last time! One...two...THREE!"_

_With a combined yell, the two men pulled with all of their might. This time, they could feel the rope slowly slide back with them. They pulled and they pulled and they pulled until there was a loud pop! and Terry was yanked out and dragged face down back onto solid ground._

_Jason ran over and turned him on his back. Terry's clothes were covered in muck and his skin was yellow and slimey. His eyes were closed; he was not moving._

"_Alright, Terry, hang on." He placed his hands on Terry's chest, one over the other, and began pumping them against it. "We've got you, lad, you've just got to breathe for us. You can make it, just breathe."_

_There was no movement. Jason glanced at Tucker, who looked on with concern. How long had he been under? Surely not long enough, Jason decided. Not long enough to quit. He was not quitting, the bastard was still alive. He just needed a wake-up call._

"_Come on...come on, Terry...come on, mate..." He shook his head. "Dammit, you arse, I said COME ON!"_

_Angrily he brought his fist down hard onto the man's chest. Almost instantly, Terry's eyes sprung open and his chest heaved. He turned his head left, coughing and sputtering sand out of his mouth. Jason and Tucker both laughed out in surprise, then out of glee._

_Deep breaths, Ter, deep breaths, there's a good lad!" exclaimed Jason, slapping him on the back._

_Terry sat up, breathing heavily, wiping slime from his face. He looked up at Jason in disbelief._

"_You...just saved my life," he gasped._

_Jason shifted uncomfortably._

"_Well, yeah...someone had to."_

_There was a pause, as he tried to look anywhere but at the man he had just saved, who was looking nowhere but at him with a mixed look of bewilderment and amusement. Tucker finally broke the silence._

"_Not that I'm not glad Terry's okay," he said, slinging his backpack back onto his shoulders. "But it's been a long afternoon. Can we please go back to camp now?"_

_Jason wordlessly rose to his feet and stalked off. Tucker helped Terry to his feet and returned his rifle to him. For the remainder of the trip, no one said another word._

* * *

_Just as he was the one to see them off, Stern was the one to greet them. It was random, how it occurred; on first glance, the alarmed techie thought they were rebels. When he realized who they were, their appearance did nothing to lessen his shock._

"_Um...guys?" he questioned as they trudged past him._

"_Don't ask," all three of them responded._

_Stern watched them stomp off towards the medical shack, and then walked off, shaking his head, more confused than ever._

* * *

Tucker's story ended there, and it was met with a resounding silence. Captain Wallace looked from face to face. Jason still looked down at his feet; Terry, having given up cleaning gunk off his skin, shrugged. Doc shook his bemused head and washed his hands.

"So that's it, then?" the captain finally asked. "The money's gone? All of it?"

"Every bill, sir," Tucker answered. Jason sighed.

"So you guys went out into the desert to bury a bag containing six hundred thousand U.S. dollars, and ended up getting sunburned, getting stuck in a sinkhole, and getting shat on by a ten-foot-tall scorpion." Danny shook his head and chuckled. "Seriously, what are you guys smoking, and can I have some?"

His answer came in the form of three middle fingers pointed in his direction. Doc wiped his hands on a towel.

"Well, I'm all done with them, sir," he told them. "They're all good to go from a medical point."

"Alright," Wallace said. "You three are dismissed. Go clean yourselves up and scrounge some dinner."

The three soldiers stood and gave small saluted and one by one filed out of the shack. Once they were gone, the captain turned to the medic.

"What do you think of it?" he asked.

"Who knows?" Doc threw his hands in the air. "With all the weird shit going on around here lately, it's hard to make heads or tails of any of it. This is one I don't even feel like trying to find logic in."

"Well, I think it's the funniest bloody story I've heard in ages," Danny announced. "I'm considering telling it to the other lads. We could definitely use more laughs around here."

Wallace smiled and looked out the window at the retreating forms of the three soldiers.

"Can't argue with that one, lad."

* * *

That night during dinner, much of the conversation revolved around a story Danny was passing around of the adventures of three soldiers patrolling the desert. "The Tale of the Fire-Farting Scorpion," as it was becoming known as, had soon become a huge hit around camp, with many of them men rolling over with laughter. It was a jubilant atmosphere that night, an atmosphere they had not shared in weeks, and it was greatly appreciated.

Terry and Tucker, mostly cleaned up and with fresh uniforms on, walked past the groups, carrying their dinners and trying not to pay attention to the conversations. As far as the other men knew, it was a fictional story concocted by an overactive imagination, and they were more than happy to let them continue thinking it. Although every so often Terry would catch Stern staring in their direction, and he had the feeling the techie knew perfectly well who the story's heroes were.

They made their way to their fire, where Jason sat staring into the flames. They sat down on either side of him; Terry offered him his can of food.

"Bloody Danny," he muttered, starting to eat. "As if we didn't have enough of a bad day without him telling the whole company about it."

"At least he kept our names out," Tucker pointed out. "Captain probably told him to."

"Doesn't make him any less of a wanker. Jace, eat up, you look bloody famished."

Jason played with his mashed potatoes for a while before stopping and staring back into the fire.

"Sorry about today, lads," he said, sounding like a defeated man. "I was so focused on keeping that money safe, anything I had to to ensure I still had it when this whole bloody nightmare was over with...now it's all gone. I don't know what I'm going to do now, I've got nothing solid waiting back home..."

The other two looked at him somberly. All three of them had made some kinda of plans for their shares of the money, but Jason had been depending solely on his share to start his business. That money would have probably helped set him up for life, and now that it was gone, he was a lost man.

"Hey, look at the bright side," Tucker said with a smile. "It could have been worse. At least we're all still in one piece."

Jason snorted, but did not look any happier. Then Terry took them both by surprise and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Don't worry, mate," he said to him. "We'll figure something out. Tuck and I won't let you end up on the street like some gutter rat."

Jason looked up in surprise, then somehow managed half a grin.

"Aye?" he asked, hope slowly creeping back into his voice.

"Aye," answered Terry with a nod. "But let's focus on getting home first. Baby steps, mate. Let's just take some baby steps."

They shared a long glance, smiling back at each other. Jason slapped Terry on the back and finally began to dig into his meal.

It really was just them, Tucker thought as they began a new conversation about how they were going to get revenge on Danny later. Alone, they had their gifts, but at the end of the day, the only thing that kept them all alive was each other. The only way he, they, all of them were getting home would be through working together to get out of this desert. Today had proved that best; their friendship had been tested all day, and here they were at the end, still laughing and joking, alive. Maybe, if their luck held, they could all make it home.

That was the wish, the fool's hope.

Until then, all they could do was take baby steps.

* * *

**Like I said before, I've had this chapter drafted for quite a long time. I'm so glad to finally have done it.**

**You may be wondering, what did I just read? Just a light, humorous chapter. Just three friends and a wacky, zany adventure. I figured one chapter of just comedy wouldn't hurt none.**

**Especially since from here on in, the story gets nothing but darker and more depressing. So I figured one last light chapter before plunging into the more serious content would be appreciated.**

**Alright, that's it. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and as always, peasoup.**


	14. The Visitor

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's Notes:** This was another chapter I had pre-drafted a while ago, along with the previous chapter. This is the first and likely the only time you will ever see a character from the books appear in my story. Go nuts as to where this fits in in the timeline, although it'll all (hopefully) add up come the end, haha.

* * *

The Visitor

* * *

She came that next morning, when the sun had risen partly above the dunes and the first of the weary soldiers were beginning to awaken from their slumber and prepare what breakfast they had. She appeared on the outskirts of the circle of shacks that they jokingly referred to as a village, not wanting to scare them by teleporting right into their compound. They had had enough surprise visitors in the last month, and the last thing she wanted to give them was another target to shoot out of shock.

French rifleman Cormac Rousseau was the soldier on duty when she arrived. The scraggly-faced twenty-eight-year-old with a lazy eye, six foot four and built like a twig, was in the seventh hour of his twenty-four hour watch, and already he felt dead on his feet. His eyelids would slowly close and then almost immediately snap open, and every once in a while the Enfield he held would slide off his shoulder and hit his foot to snap him fully awake, only for him to slide it back on and repeat the process some time later.

It was during this cycle, as he bent down to retrieve the rifle and wondered when Rene Lestat was bringing him something to eat and keep him energized, when he picked his head up and saw her off on one of the dunes, coming towards him. From a distance, all he could really see was the dark cloak she had enshrouded herself in. That cloak was all he needed; he had lost several good friends to those people, and he recognized it immediately.

Startled, he jumped to his feet and aimed his rifle at the figure. He did not fire immediately; he should have, he thought, let the company know the enemy was here. But so far whoever it was had not struck him down, and that was curious. Within this range, that green light could have easily struck him down, so where was it?

It kept coming, and finally he pulled the bolt back on his rifle to cock it and shouted, "_Arrêt! Les mains dans l'air_!"

The figure stopped in its tracks and raised a hand.

"_J'entre la paix_," a woman's voice said in his language. "_Je souhaite parler avec votre commandant. J'ai des nouvelles pour lui_."

Cormac blinked. Information? For the Scottish captain? What information could this woman have?

He weighed his options, as few as they were. Either kill her or let her in. Killing her was the favorable choice; unless she had a colored spell that could raise the dead, one less cloaked woman would not be missed by him or their lads. True, she had not assaulted him, and by rule, he was not supposed to shoot her if she was surrendering unless she attacked. But really, could anyone blame him for killing one of these people? Of course not; if anything, he'd be credited as a hero for it.

At the same time, again, she had not attacked him. That may have meant she had not come with intent to kill, unlike the last prisoner they had taken. And she had information for them. Well, he thought, what was taking one more prisoner, especially a willing one? The more information they had, the better off they all were.

He was wide awake now, as he lowered his rifle and nudged his head to the side to indicate that she was allowed in. She pressed forward, not wasting any time, and he followed barely five feet behind her, rifle steady, trigger discipline for in case she tried anything funny.

Danny was cracking open a can of tuna and had just happened to glance up by accident to see Cormac bringing the cloaked woman in. He rose to his feet, cocking his Beretta handgun, so abruptly that Marek and Matthews looked up startled from their own meals to see the cause. When they did, they reached for their weapons and rose to stand with them.

All around them, the men were beginning to rise to their new arrival. Staff Sergeant Ryan stepped forward, shotgun in hands. Doc came out of the medical shed, watching with an expressionless face. Stern kept his hand on his holster, but did not remove his sidearm just yet. All of the men either had weapons ready or were about to ready them, and none of them looked ready to trust her.

Sergeant Callard pushed forward as Cormac stopped his prisoner in the center of the slowly forming circle of troops. He took one look at her, then strode forward towards the French soldier with a furious expression.

"_Quel est le sens de ceci_?" he demanded, the words shooting out of his mouth, making the private cringe. "_Vous amenez un d'eux dans notre camp? Vous quels étaient pensant_?"

"_Elle a demandé une réunion avec Wallace de Capitaine_-"

"_Je ne soigne pas si elle a demandé une réunion avec le Pape! Nous ne laissons pas juste des gens dans nous ne savent pas, nous fait_?"

"_Je ne suis pas venu vous nuire_," the woman interrupted, her voice calm and soothing. "_Je souhaite parler avec votre commandant. Il y a des choses il a besoin de savoir_."

Scott Wallace pushed to the front of the crowd when he heard what sounded like his name come from Cormac's mouth, Lieutenants Port and Hunter at either side. As the woman spoke, her eyes fell upon him as he took another step towards her. She came forward, ignoring the sputtering remarks of the French sergeant and the guns raised at her, as she reached for her hood and pulled it off to reveal her face.

She was a relatively young woman, although her exact age was difficult for any of the men to pinpoint. Her hair was a mousy brown color that fell down and curled just at her slim shoulders. Her eyes were as green and as sharp as diamonds, twinkling over a small but stout nose, and lips that were slightly curved into a faint smile. She was thin, curves not profound but not unnoticed by the men, even with the cloak. She was attractive, not in the way that the younger men had pinned pictures of to the inside doors of the lavatories for "alone time", but the kind of attractive that the older men fell in love with and married, and for those married men, it was an attractive they preferred. She had a face that had shown a great deal of suffering in recent years, and yet there was also a childlike playfulness that seemed impossible for age to rid of.

"Are you Captain Wallace?" she asked, for the first time in her light English tone.

"Who's asking?" came Scott's naturally untrusting reply.

The woman smiled. Her robes were of a midnight blue color, mistaken easily for black at a distance, and easy for any of them to take her for an enemy. Yet her hood was round, not pointed, and she wore no mask, and her face, while pained, did not have the gaunt, sunken look to it that the other girl had. Nor did she show any signs of insanity. The more he examined her, the more Wallace began to believe she was not like the others.

"My name is Nymphadora Tonks," she introduced herself to him. "And I am on your side. I'm here to help you."

"And how do we know you're not trying to trick us?" Hunter, ever the suspicious one, wanted to know.

This woman named Tonks only smiled at him, and then she looked around at the rest of them men. Twice her eyes fell over Danny, who guiltily felt butterflies swarm in his stomach. They finally settled on Sykes, who had hobbled out of the medical shack on his crutch to see the commotion. She looked at the crutch he leaned on, then at the leg bound in its brace.

"How did you break your leg?" she asked.

Every other head turned to the wounded man. Sykes shifted uncomfortably.

"Got crushed by a giant's club," he answered, cringing inwardly at how absurd it sounded.

"How long ago?"

"Three and a half weeks." This came from Doc.

"Would you mind removing your brace? Just for a moment."

Sykes hesitated, looking from Doc to Wallace for the go-ahead. The medic looked uncertain, and he did not want to agree to something that might end up badly. The captain did not take his eyes off the woman. He studied her face, studied her eyes, weighing the decision in his mind. She smiled at them, but not with the fake pretense of innocence that he had been trained to see in prisoners. If she was planning an ill deed at all, she kept it hidden, maybe even from her own thoughts.

"Go ahead, Sykes."

The wounded radioman just stared at him. Wallace tore his gaze away from her to nod to him.

"Go ahead, lad," he repeated.

Slowly, hesitantly, Sykes placed his crutch against the wall of one of the structures and then placed his back against it. He then, with some difficulty, raised his leg high enough to untie the three buckles, one by own, with shaking hands. Someone- Finn, it looked like- stepped forward to help, but Sykes held up a hand to stop him, a silent statement of self-reliance. He pulled the brace off and let it drop to the ground, then got his crutch and used it to stand again, keeping his leg as straight as he could.

"Now, you may feel some discomfort..." As she spoke, Tonks pulled out a long thin stick- one they all immediately recognized- did a swishing motion and pointed it at his leg.

"_Episky_!" she said.

They all heard a soft _snap!_ sound and then Sykes bellowed in pain and fell onto his back, clutching his leg and rocking from side to side. Hunter pulled out his Glock and raised it, his itchy finger on the trigger and ready to shoot on the spot, but Wallace grabbed his arm and held it in place. The lieutenant gaped at his C.O., but Wallace just shook his head.

"_Sssson of a BITCH_!"roared Sykes. Angrily, he leapt to his feet and- before God, Satan, and every other flabbergasted soul in between- strode over to her in a fit rage.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing? Huh?!" he demanded, marching right up and yelling into her face. "I oughta shove that twig up your arse, ya bleedin' wench! I oughta...I oughta...I...I..."

The words died in his throat as his rage melted into shock. He blinked twice, and then looked down at his legs. He raised his right leg- the one that had been broken in a brace for over three weeks- and lifted his knee to his chest without a problem, then brought it back down nice and sturdy onto his foot.

"Bloody hell." His head shot back up. "You fixed me."

She smiled at him. He then raised his unbroken left leg and held his arms out at his sides, so that all his support was on his right leg. Doc stepped forward, ready to hold him up if needed, but the radioman shook his head slightly. There was no pain on his face, only concentration; his leg held as if it had never been broken.

Smiling in glee, he returned to his normal position and turned to the men. "She fixed me! She fixed me! Look at this, lads, I'm all set again!"

He then did something so uncharacteristically Sykes, jumping in the air and clicking his heels together like a 1940s American movie star. And then he was off, jogging around the huts, running like the runner he had always been. The men began to cheer as he took off; some even jogged behind him, cheering him on. He ran with ease, as he had always ran, and his face was that of a boy who had been grounded and then was finally allowed to go out and play again.

Doc's mouth was frozen into a large "O" of surprise at seeing his patient fully recovered from a bad break months before he should have recovered. While he had never been a religious man, this right here was nothing short of a miracle.

Wallace stiffled a chuckle at the medic's dumbfounded face and then turned his attention back to the visitor with new found appreciation.

"You've convinced me, Miss Nympe...Nympha..."

"Just Tonks, please," she corrected. "And I'm a Mrs."

She was already married. Danny could not help feeling just a tad disappointed.

"Very well, Mrs. Tonks," Wallace complied. "What can I do for you?"

"For a start, have your men please lower their weapons."

He looked at his remaining men who still had weapons trained on her and nodded. They lowered, some quickly and easily, some more slow and tense. Hunter did not take his resentful eyes off her as he holstered.

"Now," she continued, "please take me to your headquarters. We can talk there."

The captain nodded. "If it's alright, I would like my officers and N.C.O.s to listen."

"Whatever you wish. But we need to hurry, I don't have much time."

"Going to report our location to your friends?" spat Hunter, ignoring his C.O.'s glare.

"No," Tonks answered, "I need to feed my son when he wakes up."

Married AND with a kid. Danny cursed as she was lead off with the officers. He had really struck out here; not that it was anything new, with his track record.

Well, he thought as he headed for the headquarters, might as well sit in on the debriefing. Maybe get a clue on what is going on.

Maybe even learn why all this was going on.

* * *

He was the youngest rank in the room, he realized with a smug sense of pride. The three surviving officers- Wallace, Port, and Hunter- were at the head of the room like judges on a trial, and the surviving noncoms- Price, Grimes, Ryan, Carter, Pratt, and Keaney- were alongside the left-and-right-hand walls like a jury. Lieutenant Hirko, Commander Bakunin, and Sergeant Weber held their own spot near the bottom right exit. Even Stern and Charlie, who were not sergeant or higher, still outranked him, if only by a little. Danny, being a private, probably was not privileged to this meeting, but no one was kicking him out, so he nestled into his chair to listen.

"Alright," Wallace began. "Please begin. Tell us what you know."

Tonks brought her hand to her forehead, thinking. She turned to look around at all of them, and as she did, Danny thought he saw her eyes change color, from green to a sky blue. He blinked and leaned forward, but her eyes were then green again, so he settled back and dismissed the thought to lack of sleep.

"Where do I start..." she lowered her hand and looked up at the officers. "How much do you already know?"

"Virtually nothing," was the captain's answer. "What we know came from the prisoner we took, and the information she gave us was hazy at best."

"What did she tell you?"

"Well," Charlie piped up, "she went on a great deal about magic and a dark lord and something about doomsday, but, I mean...lunatic ramblings, really."

"Anything else?"

"Um...called us 'dirty Mudbloods' a lot-"

At this, Tonks flinched as though she had just been slapped in the face.

"Don't use that word," she said. "It is a horribly derogatory term for what you are."

"And what are we, exactly?" asked Port defensively.

"Non-magical people. Regular human beings. The proper term is 'Muggle.'"

"Still sounds like herpes," Danny muttered. Sitting two spaces away, Price smiled.

"'Non-magical people...'" Wallace repeated slowly, eying her cautiously. "What exactly do you mean by that? Are you going to try and convince me magic exists, like she did?"

"How can a man die from green light and some words?" Tonks asked in return, a knowing smile dancing on her face. "How can an entire base's power fail for no reason? I just healed a broken leg that still had weeks to heal with one word. The question should not be if magic exists, but instead, after all you've seen, how can you magic does _not_ exist?"

_Well_, mused Danny, _I was hoping she'd bullshit that answer. Get the idea of magic out of our heads. That got shot in the ass_.

As juvenile as he was a good portion of the time, Danny had never been one to buy into the idea of magic. He had watched Disney movies as a child- who had not?- but even at age four he had a bit of a grasp of the difference between cartoon and reality. The reality was that magic, REAL magic, did not exist, and while it was fun to wish for a magic wand to solve the world's problems, every sane human knew it was not realistic to search for one.

This woman, coming into their camp and spewing all of this mythical knowledge, was threatening that line between fantasy and reality, and Danny was not comfortable with that. He, as did the rest of the company, liked having the knowledge that everything had a rational explanation- or at least, that could be explained without dragging the hand of God into the conversation. Bringing a concept like magic into the mix only messed that up for them. If magic was real, then what ELSE was real?

He looked around at the others and was pleased to see the same doubtful expressions. Even after the attacks on their unit, even after watching a man's leg heal right in front of them, none of them wanted to admit magic was real.

Then Stern spoke, and there was a general feeling of relief from the others at the physicist putting in his two cents.

"Pardon me, ma'am," he said, holding up a hand, "but what you're insinuating simply isn't possible."

"Why not?" Tonks turned her argument towards him. "You just saw it with your own eyes. Why don't you believe it?"

"Because we live in a world where science explains how everything works. We know why an apple falls from a tree, we know what is happening when we flip a switch and turn on a light bulb, and we know how a telephone works. We know why it rains, we know why it gets windy, why there are tsunamis. We know all this because science and math and cultured minds have found the answers. Is there magic involved? If electricity and the elements of nature are to be considered magic, then possibly, but we have answers for them too, so they're not. So forgive me, but with all the knowledge we have, how can we take a silly concept like magic seriously?"

There was a general murmur of approval from the senior noncoms. Tonks sighed.

"I'm not here to argue this," she said, "but I will ask you this: in the weeks you've been traveling, there has been nothing to convince you otherwise? Nothing you've seen that made you think, made you question things?"

Stern opened his mouth to retort, then closed it. They all knew they had; skeletal winged horses, men with the lower halves of horses, giants, men dying without appearing to be wounded. All of which none of them could explain logically.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the glass top they had found at their base. He held it up to Tonks, who crossed over upon seeing it.

"We found this in Weber's tent," he explained, placing it in her palm. "The day of the base attack. It freaked out when Danny tried to open it."

Wallace frowned. "Why wasn't I informed of this?"

"At the time, we weren't sure if it was a bomb or not, sir." It was Price who spoke up this time. "We didn't want to cause panic."

"So you decided to keep it among yourselves instead of bringing a potential bomb threat to my attention?"

The sergeant was silent. Danny was trying to sink into his seat, to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Stern suddenly found his boots more interesting, and was staring at them, unwilling to look up at the C.O.

Wallace shook his head and looked to Weber. "Is this true?"

"_Ja, Herr Captain_." Weber nodded. "It was among my treasures, but it was not one I had acquired myself."

"I would think not," said Tonks. She held it up for the room to see. "This is a Pocket Sneakoscope. We discovered they planted it at the other bases they attacked as well."

"Pocket _what_?" Carter questioned.

"Sneakoscope. It's a magic detector. It goes off whenever someone is doing something untrustworthy near-by."

"So it's like a burglar alarm," noted Grimes.

"In a way, yes. We learned that they plant it in the camps and wait for someone to notice it. We don't know what the purpose of it is, aside from maybe making the targets jumpy before they attack."

"You keep saying 'they.'" Wallace pointed out. "Who are 'they?'"

The woman paused in her speech for a moment. She handed the top back to Stern, who carefully placed it in his pocket, and looked around at all of them. Danny saw her expression change to a more sullen, grave one as she turned back to the captain.

""The Death Eaters," she answered finally.

"Death Eaters?" Pratt wondered, as Danny felt a chill go down his spine. It was such a simple term, yet it had such a sinister feeling behind it.

"What you have to understand is that the majority of the wizarding world thinks that Muggles deserve to be respected. There is some age-old prejudice, yes, from those who consider themselves 'superior,' but it's mostly banter. We believe that wizards and Muggles can co-exist, provide we don't flaunt our magic."

That was simple enough for them to understand, the wizarding stuff notwithstanding. Prejudice was no stranger; it was something the human race had dealt with for centuries.

"But there is a portion, growing in power in recent years," Tonks continued, "that believe that Muggleborns are a disease; something unclean that needs to be exterminated. These are the Death Eaters. And their leader is the worst of them all."

"That would be their 'Dark Lord,' then," said Ryan. "Who is he?"

She answered him, but not in the way they had expected. Instead of speaking it, she crossed over to Captain Wallace, pulled a piece of paper out of her robes, and pressed it into his palm. He unfolded it and read what was written upon it, then frowned.

"Volde-?"

"_Shh_!" Tonks put her finger to her lips. "Don't say the name out loud. The Death Eaters will be on us in seconds if you do."

She stepped back to the center of the room as Scott passed the slip to Port to pass around the room. Each man, upon receiving it, took a look and either frowned in confusion or snorted in amusement before passing it on.

When the note made its way to Danny, he took one look at the name and immediately burst into laughter.

"What the fuck kind of name is _that_?" he blurted out. "I know evil lords have to have the most ridiculous names ever, but come _on_. He should have just called himself 'Lord I-didn't-think-this-part-through.' It explains it fine enough."

He shook his head and passed it along for the remainder of the circle to read, until it eventually made its way back to the captain. Wallace crumpled it up and threw it into the wastebasket.

"Okay," he returned his focus to Tonks. "So this Lord...Person...Thing, I don't know, he wants to rule the world?"

"He wants to rule a perfect world," she corrected.

"And how does he expect to create this perfect world?"

"By removing those he views as inferior. By eliminating what he believes to be the filth that infects the magic blood. She looked at all of them, one after the other, before her eyes fell slowly and strongly on Scott.

"In short, he wants to wipe out all Muggleborns."

* * *

Sykes sat on the edge of the camp, stretching his legs, wearing his PT running gear. It had been a month since he had last had a good jog, and now he was ready to test his legs out again.

"Care for some company?"

He looked up as Doc approached him, wearing the same attire but with a headband under his roots and a water bottle in each hand. He looked slightly ridiculous, but Sykes said nothing.

"'Course," he replied, standing up. "Should warn you, though, I'm a bit out of shape from being laid up."

"Well, that's fine. You should take it easy anyway, you were still laid up this morning.

"Aye, but it feels loads better, seriously. It's like brand new now."

"All the same, go easy on it."

Sykes smirked and nodded. Then as Doc lifted his leg back to stretch it out, his face turned sheepish.

"Hey, listen, mate," he said. "I, uh...I know I've been a right bastard patient-"

"Spencer, Doc warned, now stretching out his other leg. "Given your situation, it was perfectly reasonable for you to act out. You don't need to-"

"I just wanted to say thanks...you know, for putting up with my shit and all. Not giving up."

The medic finished his stretch and patted the runner on the back.

"Happy to assist," he said.

They finished stretching out their limbs and prepared to go. Sykes said they would only do a mile; four times around the shacks, he estimated. That seemed easy enough.

They both got into starting position. Doc opened his mouth to sound the three-two-one countdown when Sykes shouted, "Ready, GO!"

They took off, and Sykes pushed ahead, and the grace and speed in which he ran was so much so that Doc stopped for a moment to admire it. He ran like a gazelle, his feet slapping the sand with each landing, his legs leaping forward one after the other, his arms pulling him forward as it he were swinging on jungle vines. He ran with all the skill that years of running had given him, as though the accident had never happened, as though he had never gone a month without running.

Doc allowed himself a smile and a head shake before he took off after him.

As a medic, the wounded men took priority over everything else. You treated them, you nursed them, you did everything you could for them. Overtime, you eventually developed a bond, a connection, because any road they went down you as their physician had to go with them. Sometimes, the patients never fully healed. Sometimes, the patients died. And sometimes, either through your actions or some other miracle, the patients made a full recovery.

And if that happened, be sure you were good to them, because they may just ask you to run with them.

* * *

**French translations for this chapter:**

**Cormac 1: Halt! Hands in the air!**

**Tonks 1: I come in peace. I wish to speak to your commander. I have information for him.**

**Callard 1: What is the meaning of this? You bring one of them into our camp? What were you thinking?**

**Cormac 2: She requested a meeting with Captain Wallace-**

**Callard 2: I don't care if she requested a meeting with the Pope! We do not let people in whom we do not know, do we?**

**Tonks 2: I did not come here to harm you. I wish to speak with your commander. There are things he needs to know.**

**Rough translations this time, I didn't really have time to get them properly translated. I use the Free Translations website and I'm fairly certain they're not very accurate, but they're close enough.**

**Lemme know what you think, and I'll see you next time. Peasoup.**


	15. Murphy's Law

**Title:** _We Stand Alone Together_

**Summery:** Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of _Deathly Hallows_ were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.

**Rated**: M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.

**Brought to you by: **Wesker888, the author behind such works as _Just One Dance__, __For You I Will__,_ and _Crawling Under The Surface_.

**Disclaimer:** I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.

**Author's ****Notes:** I noticed I gained some new audience members, and I say welcome! Basically how I work is: I update when the chapter's ready. That may take a couple of months; I'm a bit of a perfectionist (especially with this story) and I want it to be as good as I think I can make it, and that means I take a lot of time on it. So, if you can endure that, hope you enjoy.

This chapter is...well, let's just say I hope I wrote this well enough. Bit of a warning for some mature content ahead.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: Murphy's Law

* * *

There was a general pause as Tonks finished her grave warning. No one knew how to respond to any of her claims. It was like they had taken a tumble down the hole to Wonderland, and everyone was tripping something fierce.

Danny had witnessed the attack on Charlie Base. He had seen the horse-men and had touched the winged death horse that Charlie had briefly made his pet. He had even listened to Tucker ramble on about the giant scorpion in the desert. Now, however, he was beginning to feel betrayed, because clearly the drugs had been broken out and he had not been invited.

He looked around at the more serious, questioning expressions upon the sergeants' faces. Surely they did not believe in magic, how could they? Even with the evidence presented, it was ludicrous to believe Merlin's prodigies were flying around on broomsticks and attacking people with magic wands.

No, that was not what concerned them. What concerned them was that someone out there _did_ believe in magic, and he was using the belief to start World War III, and if he succeeded then a good portion of the world would cease to exist. The big question, then, was how many good guys would bite the bullet before the bad guys got to do the same.

Then Keaney spoke, and his made Danny start a bit; the man was normally so quiet.

"He wants to wipe out the 'Muggleborns,'" he repeated, saying "Muggleborn" in the same way one would say "tapeworm." "How, exactly?"

"By any means necessary," Tonks replied. "You have created weapons that can destroy the whole world and leave a nuclear aftermath. We have spells that can torture and kill every person on the planet and never leave a mark. He will use every spell in his power to torture, to manipulate, and to kill. It's all a game to him."

"Well, if they want to play a game, I say we show them how rough we like to play!" Danny exclaimed, and he was satisfied to hear a general murmur of approval from the rest of the room.

"You can't hope to stop him with your force, he's too powerful," the woman shot him a hard look. "You all need to stop looking at this like another Muggle war. He has magic on his side-"

"Don't bring a stick to a gunfight," started Grimes. Price slapped him on the back.

"Do you seriously think he needs his wand to kill you?" Tonks was growing impatient, growing red in the face. "He knows every dark art known to our kind, and right now he has the power of our ministry on his side. Wizards and witches are barely staying alive to fight him as it is. If Muggle armies get involved, it will be a catastrophe."

"So what are you saying?" demanded an angry Lieutenant Port. "That this bastard is going to take over the world and there's not a damn thing we can do about it? That no one can stop him?"

"No, _you_ can't stop him. But someone else can."

"Yeah? Who?"

Tonks smiled. "Harry Potter."

Whether she expected them to know the name or not, she left the thick, heavy pause hanging there for the rest of the men to take in. Danny was not sure whether the name should provide comfort or skepticism; at the moment, he felt a mixture of both.

"Harry...Potter." Wallace repeated.

"Yes."

"And...you expect us to put our faith in...this one person?"

"I know it sounds like a longshot, but he's the only chance we have. And he has what it takes, he's determined, he's brave, he knows more magic than any other seventeen-year-old I've ever met-"

"He's _seventeen_?" Danny exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. ""Christ, Captain, we're supposed to put the fate of the world in the hands of a fucking _kid_? Lad's hardly old enough to _drive_, how the hell is he supposed to take on what's becoming the next Adolf Hitler by himself?"

He rubbed his eyes in frustration. In his own seat, Wallace had a look on his face that clearly showed a more perplexed look of confusion. Not for the first time that month, he had to wonder whether or not his sanity had finally reached its peak.

"Let me say it out loud, just so I can confirm we're all on the same page here," he said, though more to be sure for his own sake. "There's a man claiming to be a dark lord loose in England. This man has dark magic so powerful he can take over the Queen's palace single-handed. And he wants to rule the world and kill all of those not born with magical powers. He had an army of equally psychotic mates called 'Death Eaters' that are killing these people off. Bullets don't work very well, tanks and nukes are near-useless. And the only person that is left to stop him- the most dangerous man in history, from what you're telling us- is a seventeen-year-old boy who hasn't even finished school. Did I get all that right?"

"Within a word, yes," Tonks confirmed.

"I can just see that report going to Command now," said Danny bitterly. "We can add a sticky at the bottom of the page that says '_Are you scared shitless yet_?' That is, _if_ they believe it."

"I'm still not sure _I _believe it," added Stern.

"Whether or not you believe is irrelevant," snapped Tonks. "I've told you all you need to know; what you do now is up to you. I beg you, though, to stay alive long enough to be rescued. Run, hide, whatever it takes."

"Abandon the fight..." Ryan stated.

"You may not like it, but you must understand that if you don't, you will not survive another week. You should pack up and run as far away from this as you can."

_As if we haven't been trying_, Danny thought to himself. The last three weeks had been nothing but running, and aside from the horse-men and the rebels, they had done just fine. Just give them gas for the Humvees and they would gladly be on their merry way.

He hated backing down from a fight; both his role as a soldier and his Scottish heritage dictated that he finished a fight that had been started, regardless of outcome. And they all wanted payback. Every man in their company had lost at least one friend at Charlie Base; any chance to even the score was fair game, as far as they were concerned.

But he remembered the base attack, how different it had been, how they barely made a dent in the enemy faction. It had scared the Holy Ghost out of all of them. They had no magic, this was beyond any of them; this was not their fight. If this Harry Potter lad wanted to throw green light at a dark lord, then good luck and Godspeed to him.

And yes, it was their job to keep the world's peace. The people looked to the police, the police looked to the government, the government looked to the soldiers, and the soldiers looked to God. This force fit under something none of them could do a thing against, save God, and could _He_ even do anything? Against a force that could deflect their bullets and kill with light, what hope did they have? What other choice was there but to retreat?

Again, he looked around the room and perceived the same mixed expressions on the faces of the noncoms that he imagined was on his own. All of them were coming to the same conclusion he had, and none of them were particularly comforted by it.

Captain Wallace's face was the only unreadable one, his eyes trained solely on Tonks' face, studying her, taking it all in. Danny knew he was thinking into it more in-depth. These were his men on the line, and their lives were his responsibility. More than half the company had been killed already because they had gone in over their heads- and that had only been one battle. And after three weeks of nothing, it felt as though they had pressed their luck as far as it could go. It could not hold out forever; sooner or later, it was going to catch up to them.

Finally, the captain stood and gave Tonks a tired smile.

"Your words have been heard," he said. "And we will follow them as best we can. If the time comes when we are attacked again, however, we will defend ourselves. We will not simply leave ourselves open for further abuse."

He watched as her facial expression showed her clear opposition to his intent, but she did not voice it. She only nodded.

"Very well," she did say. "But please make it as quickly as possible."

It was a simple request, one they agreed with, but one they all knew was easier said than done.

* * *

"She really believes in magic?"

"It's what she says."

"Come off it," Jason snorted. "Alright, magic, I can sort of buy. I mean, Sykes' leg didn't put its own bones back together, aye? But this 'dark lord' stuff and the boy who's the world's last hope, that Disney shite doesn't happen in real life. The real world doesn't work like that."

"Yeah, well," Grimes scratched the back of his head, "according to her, it's happening. And if we're not out of here soon, we're not going to get out at all."

"She said all this was going on in England, that these blokes were targeting every non-wizard in sight..." reiterated Terry, his face suddenly pale. "What about our homes? What about our families? Are we going to get back only to find our homes burned to the ground and body parts strewn across the lawn?"

His question received only a sigh and a shrug for an answer.

"I don't know, mate," replied the sergeant. "I sure hope not."

Jason and Tucker felt the weight of the answer as Terry buried his face in his hands. If England could be overrun, what would stop Scotland and Ireland from suffering the same fate? Always the thought of returning home had been a thought of a safe haven, the escape from the waking nightmare of war. Now they had to face the possibility that home was just as dangerous as the desert was.

Grimes looked over his shoulder to where Tonks was walking with Wallace, Port and Charlie. The clerk was trailing behind, taking down everything the woman was saying into his notepad, while the two senior officers drilled in some last minute questions.

"Okay," Wallace said, "and the green light, that is-"

"Killing Curse. _Avada Kedavra_."

"Counters?"

"None. If it hits you, you're dead."

"Just like that?" Charlie looked horrified.

"We've seen that," the captain replied. "Understood. Green light is death. Got that, Charlie?"

"Green light is instakill. Got it."

"What about the red light?" Port wanted to know.

"Light red is Stunning. It only disorients, but that can be enough to be lethal."

"What about the dark red? We've seen that a few times," Wallace pointed out.

"That would be a spell known as _sectumsempra_. Very dark magic. Even if you manage to stop the bleeding, there will be heavy internal and external damage."

"Right. That explains that. Two of our men were hit with it, they were in critical care when we pulled out."

"What happened to them?"

Scott stopped and looked upon her face, upon the urgency and concern written between the worry lines that had already begun to form on her young face, and wondered in amazement how one could care this much for people she had never met before. These people, his men, literally meant nothing to her. Whether or not they lived or died had no bearing on her life. Or maybe it did, he pondered. Maybe their success or failure had all the bearing. A thought, if only a small one.

"One of them didn't survive the first day," he told her. "And the other is standing right here."

He nodded to Port, who wordlessly raised his handkerchief to show his distorted face. Tonks gazed upon the scarred features, the remnants of his ear, the eye that was no longer an eye but grafted mangled skin. She offered him a small smile, to which he returned grimly as he lowered the handkerchief back into place.

She turned back to Wallace. "The spell causes bleeding that can last for days. Your lieutenant was lucky it only grazed him."

"It didn't graze him, it hit the wall he was behind and it ricocheted," noted Charlie.

"Well then, be glad that wall was there, or it would have been worse."

Port snorted. "I'll be sure to tell my wife that."

"Is there anything else we should know, Tonks?" Wallace asked.

"Just to never underestimate them," came the answer. "There is so much more to them than just dark robes and magic wands. The creatures and monsters allied with them are even more dangerous; trolls, giants, the black centaurs have granted their allegiance, the werewolves are growing in numbers-"

"Werewolves?" Charlie's head shot up in alarm. "As in..._werewolves_? As in full moons, silver bullets, and unibrows?"

"Just the full moons." While not laughing, she was trying hard to keep a straight face. "Unibrows are old urban legend and silver bullets...well, I don't know of anyone who has tried that."

"Oh, well...that's decent odds, then..."

"Relax, Charlie," Scott slapped his subordinate on the back. "All it means is that they've never gone up against a company of airborne troops. We'll manage."

He looked at Tonks and saw her humor gone again, and knew why. He was failing to appreciate the grave situation they were in, or at least it sounded like he was. What she failed to grasp, though, was that humor was their only safeguard at the moment. Looking around at the rest of his men, he could see their stability and emotions hanging by a thread. It was his job to keep their spirits up, and if it meant giving some false hope, then he would give it to them.

Besides, hope was hope, no matter how small.

"I must go now," Tonks said, checking to make sure she had everything she needed. "Keep moving, and don't drop your guard. Good luck, Captain Wallace."

"Thank you, Mrs. Tonks." Scott reached forward to shake her hand. "We'll do whatever we can. Good luck on your end as well."

She nodded, turned and left, to head back out into the desert, the way she had come in. Wallace watched her go off for a moment before turning to give orders to his men. They had to plan and prepare, and fast.

As she was leaving, however, she happened upon Danny, who was sitting on a crate on the edge of camp, cleaning his sub-machine gun. He had been staring after her, but when she turned to him he immediately lowered his head back to his weapon. She stopped in her tracks, smiling at him.

"What's your name?" She called to him.

He looked back up and jumped to his feet in surprise.

"Daniel Armstrong, ma'am," he said.

She walked over to him, and with each step he felt his heart beating faster until they were face-to-face. He gulped, nervous and at the same time unsure of why he was nervous. He did not know this woman, had never met her before, and for Christ's sake, she was already married, he should not be-

Then she did something he did not expect; she reached up and tenderly touched his cheek with her fingertips. It felt like electricity shooting through his skin upon her touch. He gulped.

"I hope you survive this, Daniel Armstrong," was all she said.

If he could speak, he would have said "yes ma'am," "of course, ma'am," "and you as well, ma'am." Instead, all he did was nod and make an incoherent noise. She gave him one more pat on the cheek and walked away from him.

Danny continued to stare after her as she left, watched her as she ventured back out into the desert. He could not bring himself to turn away, wanting to keep her image in sight until she was too far away. This determination held until a sudden gust of wind kicked sand up and into his face and he blinked, and in the split second where his eyes were closed she went from still being visible to disappearing entirely.

He blinked, scanning the horizon. _What the hell_? Where did she go? She had been clear as day and now she had disappeared as if...

_As if by magic_, he thought, and the sheer irony of that thought made him chuckle as he returned to the rest of his mates.

* * *

It was a somber mood in the camp that night. Scattered into their normal groups, sitting by their fires, there were no jokes told, no laughs to be had. There was only silence; the minds of everyone focused on the day's events and what lay ahead. Mostly, they thought about their homes that may no longer be there, and their families that may or may not still be alive.

So it was that Sergeant Ryan, on his rounds, came across Terry, Tucker, Jason, Owen, Archie and Finn at their spot and sat down with them. There were no drinks passed from the still tonight; everyone was sober, everyone was quiet, until Tucker spoke.

"Is all of this really happening, Sarge?" he asked. "Everything she said, the magic and all, can it be true?"

Ryan's response was very uncharacteristically Ryan. Instead of ignoring them or barking out an order for them to mind their business, he instead sighed and- to the amazement of the others- scooted closer, to be a part of the group.

"I don't know," he answered. "But with this intelligence and everything we've seen, I'm willing to believe it."

"Jesus Christ," muttered Terry, wishing he still had a cigarette on him. The idea of an army of psychopaths in England targeting people just because they could not pull a rabbit out of a hat was too unbelievable.

"What are we doing out _here_?" Owen asked. "We're dragging our asses around in the sand, and meanwhile our country is getting ravaged. Why aren't we _there_ instead?"

"_Is_ it in trouble, though?" Finn wondered. "I mean, we were getting mail at the base and none of mine ever mentioned any deaths in the family, y'know? Maybe it's not as bad as all that."

"Aye," Archie agreed. "Let's not lose our heads. There's a load of things we don't know yet. For all we know, it's contained in their little world and hasn't really hit ours yet."

"It's possible," Ryan admitted. "The way she made it sound was that the whole country was under siege. We won't know for sure until we get out of here."

"I'll bet they're just walking the streets like they own the place." Terry tapped his fingers on his right hand onto the back of his left, lost in thought. "Burning down houses just for sport. Probably raping every woman they come across."

"Oh, don't even joke about that," Jason insisted as Tucker shifted uncomfortably. Rape was a sore subject for a lot of the men in the company; an unforgivable act, one worthy of whatever punishment the perpetrator was in for. There had been a scandal with Delta Company a year back when a squad of soldiers, out on patrol, had raped a mother and daughter in the city. Many of the ones who had partaken in it had been without a woman for months; from what had been found in their bunks, they had been planning this excursion for some time beforehand.

One of the soldiers, a replacement with only two weeks in-country, ended up guilt-ridden and reported to the C.O. There had been a investigation and a hearing, and for a month or so the Delta compound had been crawling with MPs. In the end, at least one soldier had been court martialed and sentenced to prison; the rest of the men were one by one transferred out of the company.

"Who's joking? You think they won't? You think they won't take any woman they see and bend her over for some fun?"

"Jesus, man, come on." Archie shuddered.

Terry snorted. "Probably make it into an orgy. Just heard all the women into one room and make a party of it. Hell, while they're at it, let's just get all the little children in on it."

"_Christ_, Ter," Tucker blocked his ears.

"Grab all the little children and have them grow up their way. Why not? It's probably what they do. Bunch of kidfuckers who make a sport out of-"

What happened next they did not expect. Or at least, not entirely. They expected somebody to finally come up and shut Terry up with their fist; hell, it was something that was bound to happen sooner or later. But they expected it to come from someone who would not have anything to lose from it. Sully, maybe, or Danny, or even Sergeant Price who would use it to teach a lesson.

No one would have expected it from Murphy.

But that's what happened. Murphy had been sitting off by himself, within earshot but not interacting with the group. But when Terry turned the conversation towards kids, he suddenly stood up. And when the demolitions man kept speaking, he turned and stalked over, grabbed him by the shirt, and slugged him right in the mouth. He then straddled him and continued to punch him, always for the face, and every blow hurt.

"_Woah_!" Owen fell back, shocked. Jason and Tucker leapt up and tried to pull Murphy off of him, which was harder than they thought given how skinny the man was.

"Easy, mate-" Jason was cut off by the wind being knocked out of him as Murphy's elbow collided with his gut. He fell back, rolling on the ground and cursing. Tucker immediately backed away, hands raised in surrender, allowing the other soldier to continue to wail on Terry.

Ryan finally got his arms under Murphy's arms and pulled him back. The private managed to get one last kick in before the staff sergeant finally got him away.

"The fuck's _wrong_ with you?!" Terry exclaimed, spitting out blood from his split lip. "Crazy sod-"

"_Shut up_!" Murphy screamed, struggling to break out of Ryan's grip. "_Shut up! You do not fucking joke about that! You have no right to joke about that! Shut the fuck up!_"

"_Easy_, Murph!" Ryan ordered, keeping his fellow mechanic back. "Relax!"

"Ow..._fuck_," groaned Jason in a raspy voice, still rolling side to side. "Somebody call Doc, I think he ruptured my fucking spleen..."

Other soldiers from the surrounding groups had come over to see what the commotion was about. One or two of them was even exchanging money, placing down some sort of a bet over who would win. Once Ryan interfered, however, most of them groaned and returned to their fires, let down by the anticlimactic finale.

"Sit down, Murphy." The staff sergeant forced him to sit. "Now take a breather. It's alright."

"It's _not_ alright." Murphy jumped back up, glaring at Terry. "Raping's not something you have a laugh at."

"We _know_ that, Murph. Terry didn't mean anything by it."

"Didn't he? Didn't he mean anything by it? Making molestation a joke? That's just like him, isn't it? Terry the Wisecracker, turning child abuse into a joke!"

"Oh, fuck off-" Terry snapped.

"_You fuck off_! How do you think those kids feel? You think we get a laugh out of it too?"

Finn frowned. "We?"

Ryan studied Murphy's face as it paled at the realization that he had said too much. The private backed away, then turned his back to them and sat down, refusing to meet any of their stares. Once again he was silent; once again he chose solitude to speaking out.

Ryan and Finn exchanged concerned looks. They were the only ones who did; Terry helped Jason up and returned to the fire. Owen munched on his dinner. No one gave Murphy a second glance; no one but the staff sergeant, who was not going to let that remark slide. Not this particular one.

"Aaron," he called softly, "did something happen to you?"

That caused everyone at the fire to glance back over at Murphy. Tucker blinked twice and frowned. Archie leaned forward, looking concerned. Murphy, however, did not move or speak; he sat in his ball, back facing them, refusing to turn around and face them.

"It's okay," Ryan continued. "You can tell us."

"Oh, you're kidding me," said Jason, eyes widening.

The young soldier shifted, but still did not move. Ryan stepped forward.

"Aaron-"

"I was eight...the first t-t-time it happened."

And that was it. Everyone fell absolutely silent when he finally choked out the words, unsure or maybe unwilling to believe if they had heard him correctly. All eyes were on Murphy as he began to shake, trembling from opening a door he had tried for years to keep locked.

"My mum, she...she was very p-p-p-popular, and...liked to have p-parties," he stuttered. "This one bloke she knew from college...he would come visit me, help me with s-s-schoolwork, offer to p-play toys with me..." He wiped his eyes and sigh, and his sigh came out like a strangled gasp.

"That's how they g-get you, y'know...pretend to be your f-f-friend, pretend to c-care...they buy you gifts, new t-t-t-toys or something cool you really wanted or needed...they g-g-get close t-to you so that when they st-t-t-tart feelin' up your junk that you d-d-d-on't protest it because you t-t-t-t-t-trust th-hem-"

"Jesus, man," Jason said. Tucker's face was white as a sheet.

"I d-d-d-didn't know...I c-c-couldn't...I told my m-m-mum but she didn't b-believe me...in high school I started sm-moking up because, f-fuck it, what did it m-matter? I t-t-think that t-time they found me in the loo w-w-was...was m-me just...d-done with it..."

In another uncharacteristic move, Ryan sat down next to Murphy, put his arm around his shoulders, and pulled him into a one-armed embrace. The private put his head down on his shoulder and sobbed. Soldiers from the other groupings were glancing over, concerned this time, but unlike before, none of them ventured over to see more. No one but the immediate group heard Murphy's tale.

"Why have you never told us before, Murph?" asked Owen, to Ryan's annoyance. _Who asks a question like that, honestly_?

Murphy let out a choked laugh. "My own mum didn't believe me, you think I was going to tell a bunch of s-s-s-s-strangers that some old t-tosser diddled my cock when I was younger?"

"What happened to him?" Finn wanted to know.

He was answered with a shrug. "One time w-when I was home on leave, h-he was around...he t-t-tried to make a pass at me and...w-w-well, at that point the army had t-t-t-trained me fairly well...I kinda lost count how many times I k-kicked his balls in-"

Jason and Tucker immediately burst out laughing. Owen chuckled along, and, after a moment, Murphy even cracked a smile.

"That w-was the last I heard from him...never heard his name m-m-mentioned again." Then the smile faded again. "But you d-don't forget that stuff...it stays with you, it b-b-burns in your head...you don't forget..."

_There are a lot of things in life you don't forget_, Ryan thought. Whether it be a furious battle or being sexually abused by a trusted associate...bad things in life had a way of always being there, staying in your memory whether you wanted it there or not. Almost all the veterans had at least one bad story about the war; now he wondered how many of them had a memory of something worse.

_You never really know someone, I guess._ _Maybe some things are best that way._

He glared over at Terry. The demolitions expert had remained silent and expressionless during the entire exchange, not taking his eyes off of Murphy.

"Terry, apologize," he ordered.

Terry frowned. "Oh come off it-"

"_Terry_." The staff sergeant gave him a look that suggested murder. "Apologize. _Now_."

"Alright, _alright_!" He looked awkwardly back at Murphy. "I'm sorry, mate. I didn't mean to offend."

Murphy just nodded. "Sorry I beat you up. And you too, Jace."

Jason shrugged. "You're not the first to do it," he said, grinning.

"We've got your back, Murph." Archie raised his canteen, then took a swig. "No worries there, lad."

The mood was changing back to a lighter tone, which was welcoming. Murphy got up and rejoined the rest of the group, and after a second Ryan followed. Archie offered him a drink, which he refused, but instead passed it on to the younger soldier. Murphy took it and took a drink.

_Best thing a survivor wants to hear is that he's not_ _alone_, Ryan thought to himself._ That someone gives enough of a shite. That's one of the best things about the army; there's always gonna be someone that does._

"How old are you, Murph?" questioned Finn. "I forget."

"Twenty," was the reply, followed by a meek smile. "Today was my birthday, actually."

"No shit?" Jason laughed. "And we didn't make a cake! Well, we'll make do. Archie, get us a round going. Hell, make it three. We'll get well and drunk tonight to celebrate."

The rest of the privates laughed and cheered at that, clinking canteens and tin cups. Ryan sat back and smiled. Although he would not drink, he would stay and chat with these men, this little dysfunctional family, for a spell.

_After all_, he thought as Jason and Tucker put Murphy in a headlock and gave him a noogie, _you only turn twenty once_.

* * *

It was cold tonight, but under the thick blanket, Danny, Price and Matthews managed to get snug and warm as they sat in their foxhole. Once again they had dug it enough so that they could fasten a blanket canvas roof over their heads, tied to sticks, to give them the pretense of being indoors.

_Another night, another outpost_, Danny thought. At least it was a nice night for it. Peering out from under the blanket roof, he could see the night littered with stars, almost like dancers putting on a show for them. Most beautiful of all was the moon. It was a full moon tonight, shining bright and lighting up the entire terrain. In the bluish hue, the desert looked actually somewhat beautiful, almost alien.

_On nights like this, being out here doesn't feel too bad._

"And now, I believe we know how they felt," Price said, pulling Danny out of his thoughts.

"What who felt?" Matthews asked, struggling to keep his eyelids open.

"The Persians, when the Rashidun Caliphate were marching through Mesopotamia to push them and the Romans out."

"The Rashiwhat?"

"The first four political successors to Muhammad, in spreading the word of Allah. Carter could tell you more about it if you wanted to know." Price pointed out to the desert. "They probably passed right through here, nine thousand Muslim Arabs, ready to burn the shit out of Al-Anbar on their way north."

Danny whistled. "That's a hell of a long ride."

"It was worth it for them. This country's been at war for thousands of years, fighting for land, fighting for religion...war's a way of life out here. Sometimes you have to sit back and wonder what we're hoping to accomplish by being here. From their point of view, we're no different than the Persians and Romans were."

That was something they had all wondered at one point in time or another. Hundreds and hundreds of years of warfare, what hope did they have in bringing peace? It was no secret that this war was a pointless one, it caused discussion on nights when one too many drinks had been gulped down. The answer always came back to politics, and that was a discussion not even drunk people wanted to have. It was always something to think about, though.

Especially now, with all that was happening.

"So what are we gonna do about this Death Eater lot?" he asked.

"That name's a laugh," snorted Matthews. "'Death Eaters', what, you _eat_ death? Pretentious much? It sounds like something a bunch of college kids would call themselves for a laugh."

"Aye," agreed Danny, "but what do we _do_ about them?"

"We follow the woman's advice," Price responded. "We get our bearings, and we get to safe ground. Sound the alarm, raise defenses, hold our ground, and hope to heaven this Harry Potter lad does what he needs to do."

"And if we run into them first?"

He smiled. "Well, a little payback _would_ be nice, wouldn't it?"

"Aye to that." Matthews raised his canteen and took a drink.

_Yes_, Danny thought, resting his chin on his arms. _Payback would be beautiful_. _For Tubbs, Pete, Tony, and the rest of them_. _If these Death Eaters come back, there's gonna be hell to pay_.

The three stared out into the desert, to what may have been the same spot centuries ago that the Muslim armies were fighting for freedom. All three of them tired but alert, somber but contemplative. All three of them veterans, all three of them ready for whatever army, be it rebel or wizard, that came at them.

And then from somewhere out behind the dunes, a wolf howled.

* * *

**I think you know what's coming next.**

**I'm not going to say too much about Murphy's storyline here, because...quite frankly, I'm not the best person to talk about it. I was nervous to approach this sort of backstory, kind of like how I was nervous to touch that one part of _Crawling Under the Surface_. Overall, thought, I think it came out alright. I wonder if I should've made his history a little longer, but reading it again, I think the length is right.**

**One last little note, like a lot of the worldly facts I tend to throw in from time-to-time, the march of the Rashidun Caliphate is a true story. The battle of Al-Anbar took place in 633 A.D., between 9,000 Muslim soldiers and an unknown number of Persian soldiers. It ended in a Muslim victory with few casualties on both sides.**

**There's not TOO much information to find on that battle, but it is out there.**

**So yeah. Next time...well, you'll see. Peasoup.**


End file.
